My youngest has gotten a cleaning bug from somewhere, and oh, yeah, I'm fighting this.
R whips her broom and dustpan around like she's going for the Silver Shoes competition (Junior Division) trophy. If she had pet mice they'd no doubt be singing a happy tune with her.
We tell her she's a good girl, that doesn't she want to play? but no. This is playing, she says, and swirls her mop with more joy than I've ever had wielding it.
'Y'know, honey,' I say, 'You could let me do that.' (I'm also covertly eyeing the puddles of water and the glued-on dog hair scattered behind.)
'Mama! NO. I am going to clean this, then I'll sit down and Cass and I can watch cartoons.' she said, zooming through the rooms with abandonment.
She's even got her brother thinking this is fun.
I tried again. 'Rosey, I'll finish this.'
Rosey tipped the mop bucket into the sink. 'All done, Mama.'
'I can do this stuff b'cause I'm a gen-us. You have to be to take care of a fam'bly.'
Y'know, who am I to argue with this next generation?