What Finally Got Me to Clean
Published: @November 22, 2025
Our split-level house on the southern end of Northern Virginia is what's called a beginner house—big enough for a young couple with a baby or two, but small enough to be affordable. My husband, James, bought this house in the late eighties when he was still married to his ex-wife. When we moved in many years ago, I expressed my apprehension about moving into a house where he'd lived with her. He told me this would be just short-term, until we found a real house, big enough for the four of us: him and me and Ashley, 2 at the time, and Miley, a baby on the way. So I said okay. That was almost twenty years ago.
When the kids were young, I wanted to get them a finished basement like I'd seen at other neighbors' houses in newer developments, where parents let their kids enjoy it, bring their friends for playdates. A guaranteed place where my girls could have barbies and play houses and color pencils on thick, colorful, square rubber mats that fit together to create a bigger, safe space for them to play on, jump on, draw on, roll all over on.
At a certain point, I decided I would stop yearning for a bigger house—the one dream I'd had since my childhood, especially for someone who lived in a cramped house like Inhwa.
The first floor of our split-level house wasn't designed like that. Our house was designed so weirdly that three bedrooms, the kitchen, and the living room were all crammed into the upper level, which was only maybe 1,000 square feet. And the lower level was divided into a den and two small office-ish rooms. James took the den as his man cave and one of the rooms as his office, and his son, Sean, took the other room. In other words, my poor kids didn't have a place of their own.
Maybe our kids didn't go to their friends' houses enough. Maybe they didn't see how big their houses were compared to ours. Maybe they didn't care. Maybe they just didn't tell me.
Until we all got old. Sean left a long time ago, Ashley left for college a few years ago, Miley soon off to college. At a certain point, I decided I would stop yearning for a bigger house—the one dream I'd had since my childhood, especially for someone who lived in a cramped house like Inhwa.
Then this morning, I was writing episode 4 for the blog, where I described my family's housing conditions while I was growing up—a cramped, tiny, messy place that is, in itself, a big character for the story. Then Miley asked me if she could have her boyfriend over, and I said yes, but she said our house was too messy. I totally agreed with her, but I'd given up on that long ago, around the time I gave up on the big house. Neither did the fact that Miley is the kind of high school girl who never picks up after herself, nor that I'm such a lazy lady I rarely do anything other than a quick vacuum, fix some meals, and do some laundry over the weekend, help our situation.
So I hoped Miley would forget about it, and we'd all go back to our messy life with no witness intruding on our private space.
Then I see Miley walk around with a trash bag in her hand, half full, then throw it out onto the deck. She goes back to her room, makes some shuffling sounds, and emerges with another trash bag.
"When do you want Tripp to come over? It's not today, right?"
"It is today, right after I'm done cleaning."
"Well, by the time you're done cleaning, it will be no more today." I was half sarcastic, half kidding.
Miley continued picking up, cleaning up, even used the vacuum.
That was the moment I accepted the truth: I had to help her. So I got off the kitchen table where I was mindlessly watching YouTube on my laptop and started playing '80s Korean pop—my favorite music nowadays—from my tablet, loud enough to be encouraging for the manual labor.
When Miley asked me if I could clear off the dried bird poop from the railing—so conspicuous that it's always the first thing I see when I open the front door but I keep telling myself 'I will take care of it later'—I did.
I dustwiped the couch, the TV stand, the window sills. I put away half-empty bags of snacks, boxes of K-Cups, and all kinds of knickknacks off the top of the bunny box. (Yes, we have a bunny house inside the living room. We can't help it—it's Ashley's bunny, which I'm taking care of while she's at college.) I cleared the kitchen table of the pencil box, hand lotion, etc. so it would look like a kitchen table instead of a junk table where you leave all kinds of stuff, meaning to pick up but never do. And when Miley asked me if I could clear off the dried bird poop from the railing (yes, we have a bird, the only animal who isn't house-trained in our house, but she's Miley's so I can't get rid of her either)—so conspicuous that it's always the first thing I see when I open the front door but I keep telling myself "I will take care of it later"—I did.
So finally, after an hour of unexpected huffing and puffing, my house looks much better now.
And right now Miley and Tripp are in the living room, chatting, giggling, while I'm sitting here in my room, keeping my crazy dog next to me so he'll leave Tripp alone.
I guess what was needed to get our messy house in shape was, after all, Miley's boyfriend.
An unexpected result of my teenage daughter's romance.
I guess what was needed to get our messy house in shape was, after all, Miley's boyfriend. An unexpected result of my teenage daughter's romance.
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