"Your room is messy."

My 5-year-old cousin has been spending his time after school with us while my aunt has been out-of-town. He stays for dinner, and then we take him home where a grandmotherly neighbour watches him until my uncle arrives home from work. One day, last week, he was in my room, and what does he say but: “Your room is messy.” Yeah, tell me something I don’t know, kid.

So I spent the day cleaning and organizing. I started with my car intending to work my way from the inside-out. After two hours of vacuuming, dusting and cleaning, I was tired. So I drove to the nearby carwash to finish the job.

My room was next on my list—more specifically, the pile of new books on my dresser that needed a home on my crowded bookcase, the clean laundry that’s been sitting on my couch for the last week, and the endless receipts, papers, magazines and dust that litter my dresser and floor.

Somehow, while vacuuming, I cut my thumb. How? I do not know. The last time I mopped the floor, I tripped over the bucket so hard that I bruised myself and broke the skin. I still have the scar to show for it. I think the universe is trying to tell me something…like maybe I should stop it with the cleaning.