Karen grabbed a sponge, determined to conquer the kitchen. The toddler, Timmy, was napping—until he wasn’t. Suddenly, a splat of juice hit the floor. Karen groaned, sprinting to contain the mess. The sponge was too small. She grabbed a mop, which was too long. The dog, Biscuit, ran in, knocking over a tower of dishes. Karen tripped over a toy, landing in a puddle of juice. She looked up, covered in suds and juice, and laughed until tears rolled down her face. “This is why we don’t have guests,” she muttered, wiping her eye with a dishcloth. Biscuit wagged his tail, oblivious. Timmy stirred, then burst into tears. Karen sighed, collapsing onto the couch. The apartment looked like a tornado hit a spa. Her friend’s car idled outside. “I’m never cleaning again,” she declared, as Timmy crawled toward the mess, giggling.
