This past week was a doozy. There's nothing I wanted to do more last night than to take a hot bath and go to bed. There's always one little problem with that idea.  The bathtub is in the girls' bathroom. The way they keep things, it's a good chance, that even with a bath,  I'll leave their bathroom dirtier than I entered. 

Their dirty clothes hamper is two steps farther than they can reach. Q-tips, hair balls and empty shampoo bottles are valuable collector items. It's quite obvious somebody brushes their teeth with their mouth open. I'm assuming that's what those dried-foam looking specks are on the mirror. Honestly? I'm just glad they're brushing their teeth. 

Last night I brainstormed ideas on how to get their bathroom clean that didn't involve me muttering angrily while on my hands and knees "Soft Scrubbing" the tub, or my asking them to clean it and then having to call them back five times after they said they cleaned it grumping, "There's still dried toothpaste on the counter ". 

I thought about getting a fold-up lawn chair from the garage and setting it up in the bathroom like a director's chair. I could sit and watch the girls clean, making sure they picked up every empty toilet paper tube (something else they collect). I'd tell them not to forget the five rubber bands that sit along the bathtub's edge. 

No. That wouldn't work either. Three girls in the bathroom at the same time with me barking orders? We'd surely be cross at each other for the rest of the day. 

Bathroom clean up always ends up ugly, or else not getting done at the Burden house. 

The bathroom was cleaned yesterday. It's "cleaned" every week, but by "cleaned" I mean they make sure the toilet is flushed and part with one empty toilet paper tube, throwing it on top of an already mounting pile of trash.  They straighten the bathroom rugs and close the cabinet door. 

Cleaning "at it" is somehow suffice. It's never cleaned to completion. 

I won't lie. I have room for improvement in my own cleaning habits. 

I did, however come up with an idea this morning to aid in the bathroom debacle. I grabbed a pen and a pad of sticky notes out of the drawer in the kitchen. I ran up to the bathroom and began to write every single thing that needed to be done; each on a separate "sticky". 

I didn't take a single task for granted. 

Put the razors and body wash in the caddy hanging on the shower head. 

Clean the mirror with Windex and a paper towel. 

Put your clothes in the dirty clothes hamper...and shut the door. 

I let the girls decide how they would divide the sticky note chores. 

...And I left the house for a meeting. 

An hour later I got a picture from my husband, Jason, of the bathroom looking cleaner than I've ever seen it (when they clean it). 

I didn't have to go in every five minutes to say "Don't forget to clean around the sink". 

In writing the chores down, they weren't made to suffer the agitated tone that they're accustomed to when I call them to the bathroom to tell them something else that needs to be done. 

Writing out each chore separately made the tasks tangible. They could take the sticky off as each chore was done, knowing that they weren't finished until every task was complete. 

It's a little after noon and just one sticky remains. The "I love you" note. We still like each other. AND I have a spot to take a nice relaxing bath should I want to later on, though, strangely, I'm much less stressed this afternoon. 

Sticky notes for the win!!

I'll have to try them for the bedrooms next. Right after I buy more sticky pads. 

Romans 12:18

If possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all.

  
We call her "Bad Dog" because she's passive aggressive and sometimes plain old agressive. 

On Hallie's thirteenth birthday she asked for Mac makeup, an iPhone or a dog. I thought she deserved a four-legged best friend. After giving an impassioned speech to Jason about why we should get her a dog, we decided to surprise her. 

I remember searching for the right best friend for Hallie. I looked at the pictures on the Facebook page of the Humane Society. I used my phone to screenshot the pictures of possibilities. 

"Bad Dog" was one of the first dogs I spotted. I thought she was a cutie. The writer started out calling her "Angel". The next sentence said something like, "Just kidding, she's a bit of a mess. Her name is Ivy". 

Well....anybody knows that the writers of these blurbs make the dogs sound as good as possible. If the dog still wets and messes indoors they say something like "mostly trained". If they're as wild as all get-out, they say something like "playful...or energetic". 

I put "Ivy" on the bottom of my list. (She was cute. I had to give her that.). 

My visit to the shelter still remains vivid in my memory. I had a list of three dogs I wanted to look at. As soon as I walked past the first room where kennels lined the wall, I spotted "Ivy"...out of every dog in the bunch. 

I quickly moved forward, intent on sticking with my list. I asked to look at an Australian shepherd girl puppy I'd picked out online. She'd been adopted the day before. "But we still have her brother," the volunteer smiled. 

I looked at "Brother's" beautiful blue eyes as he was handed to me. I was immediately distracted by the warm, wet sensation running down my arm. Guessing he was one of the  "mostly trained" dogs, I quickly handed him back. I decided to look at dog number three. 

Dog number three was CRAZY out of control. I get it, they grow out of it. But we needed a ready-made potty trained, calm friend. The volunteer asked if there was any other dog we might be interested in. I remembered "Ivy" who'd caught my eye when I walked by. 

We walked back to the kennel-lined room where my ears were assaulted by barks; some shrill, some booming. There sat "Ivy" as quiet as a church mouse with her paws folded in front of her as if she were engaging in morning meditation. 

The volunteer pointed me to a chair in the next room and left to go let "Ivy" out of the crate. The sweet pup trotted to me and climbed in my lap. She curled up and allowed me to rub behind her ears. Maybe she was an angel. I signed the papers. 

She was a tear-inducing surprise days later as she was handed over to Hallie. Ashlee, as she's been renamed, has been a surprise ever since, like the time she chewed up my trusty Sunday black heels. I won't forget one of the first times we had company after getting her. They stayed in the apartment in our backyard. To welcome our company, Ashlee messed on the sidewalk...in three different places. She creatively punishes Hallie when Hallie hasn't performed in a stellar friend manner by doing things like laying on our other daughter's (Rylie's) bed.  

There's one thing that Ashlee does that doesn't surprise me anymore. Her ritual is like clockwork. Every morning when we let Ashlee outside, almost immediately she perches herself in front of the low-lying living room window and she waits. She watches, hoping to catch a glimpse of her best friend (even though she's slept in a crate right by Hallie's bed). She's gives no attention, for that moment, with the morning walkers and the cars zizzing down the street. She's unconcerned. You won't find her looking for the neighborhood cat, "Moot", who struts up our driveway for his daily exercise in taunting. 

  
A loud little thing, this is her time to just be still and silent, knowing she is in the right spot. She takes the time, before facing her day, to be near the one who loves her most. And it's enough. 

Psalm 90:14 Satisfy us in the morning with your steadfast love,

    that we may rejoice and be glad all our days.

Ivy. 

Angel. 

Bad dog. 

Ashlee. 

Evil genius. 

Whatever you want to call her... I call her wise. She knows the one who is there for her, the one who cares for her, the one who is her best friend. And life is best when she remembers this. When she experiences this. And when she sits and waits expectantly knowing her friend is never far away. 

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