always wash the cheese grater first
A reminder to dance, and clean, but not at the same time, because human beings weren't made to multi-task.
I currently have 93 tabs open in my phone and nearly as many open in my mind.
Years of therapy have helped in a lot of areas, but I’ve still not figured out how to slow down my brain. Thankfully, I have a very loving husband who is constantly saying sweet things like, “Focus!” and “Don’t try to do too many things at once” and “Are those socks dirty?” which is code for “Put your socks in the hamper.” I nod, like, “Yes, of course, dear!” as I think of the 15 things left to cross off today’s to-do list while drafting an essay-ish for first drafts in my head and simulataneously daydreaming a scene for the short story I’m working on, while also cooing at my baby boy and thinking how did I get so lucky.
Now you’ve the context, this story will make much more sense.
The sun was shining, the windows were clean — well, almost.1 I put on Strauss’s Vienna Bon Bons waltz and dragged the step stool to the big window above the kitchen sink, where my son, bouncing contentedly in his baby bouncer, had a clear view of both his mother and the ceiling fan whirring above the island. I sprayed the white wooden trimming with cleaner and turned to smile at my son. He smiled back, the smile growing as I began to dance animatedly, absurdly, off-beat to the tune. I returned my focus to the window, wiping the trimming, turning between spritzing and wiping to silly-dance for my baby, who laughed at my antics. The spray-wipe-dance pattern continued as I finished one window pane and moved on to the next. The music started to build and I turned, mid-clean, to look at V——, who looked expectantly back at me. I reached out my hand, playing conductor, waving it back and forth in time to the music, my movements growing wilder and more dramatic to match the swelling sounds. When the waltz crescendoed, my arm soared, and all at once my son laughed, I heard a thwack! and I jolted forward, nearly toppling off the step stool.
I had waved my hand into the ceiling fan, and that awful sound was the spinning blade conking against my engagement ring. My heart dropped as I held up my hand to assess the damage. Somehow, the ring was intact. I breathed a sigh of relief, and then the throbbing began. Before I could panic, I moved the filange, opening and closing my fist, and, aside from the aching, the finger worked just fine. Miraculously, I had sparred with a ceiling fan and come away unscathed.
I looked down at my son, who gazed up, open-mouthed, at me. “Mommy is silly,” I laughed, breaking the tense silence that had filled the room momentarily. Then, because every moment is a learning moment, I added, “You should always be aware of your surroundings so you don’t get hurt.” Satisfied by own excellent parenting, and proud I hadn’t let slip an f-bomb, I resumed dancing, cautiously, and finished cleaning the kitchen window with finesse.
It was without finesse that I began washing dishes earlier this week. It was nearly a week after the Great Fan Fight, and again my son and I were in the kitchen. He lounged in his baby bouncer, happily chewing on a bright blue hedgehog teether, as the sink filled with hot, soapy water. Just for fun, I sprayed the sprayhose, but V—— was unimpressed, so I shrugged, “Tough crowd!” and tossed a few items into the sink. I figured that while it filled, I’d knock out the smaller items, and quickly washed two knives. I set them on the drying pad and turned to impart wisdom upon my son, something about not cutting with big knives unless Daddy is supervising, and then, eyes still on my baby, reached my hand back into the water.
Sharp pain.
I had the good sense to whisper, and not scream, the ‘ole JC-f bomb combo, but even that didn’t help. Blood streaked down my finger; the shiny cheese grater sat innocently, sharp side up, in the sink. I had known the grater was in there. It was the first utensil I’d placed in the sink; I’d watched water and soap bubble up around it. I knew I should have washed the cheese grater first, since it’s so sharp; knew how foolish it was to reach my hand in the sink without first looking what I was doing, and yet, here I was, wrapping my stinging middle finger in paper towel. When the first paper towel soaked through with blood, I called my nurse practitioner sister, who was at work, which I pointed out was perfect, since this call was work-related, and asked what I should do. She, probably annoyed, but kindly, instructed that I apply pressure and keep my finger above my heart, to slow the bleeding.
Do you know how hard it is to entertain a restless six-month-old while applying pressure to your cut finger, which you are holding high above your head, for 35 minutes, until your husband mercifully comes home early?
Okay, it’s not as hard as you’d think, if you just keep singing ridiculous made-up songs, like, “It’s really hot out! The sun beats down, through the clouds, upon the town…” and doing some silly version of the cha-cha. It’s not terribly difficult, but your arms will ache. And when he gets home, your husband will walk into the house and, after asking if you’re all right, and telling you it’s not as bad as you made it out to be, say, “You probably were looking at V—— and not paying attention to what you were doing…” And you’ll say, “Yes, dear,” and wonder if he’s mad that dinner isn’t made yet, because dinner making time was interrupted by holding-bleeding-finger-above-your-head-so-it-stops-bleeding time, and wonder if he’ll apply ointment for you, and if it’s too hot to go jogging, and if you should turn this moment into ~content~.
Josh wasn’t upset; I did get my jog in, and we had dinner late, but not too late. I did turn the moment into content. I turned the moment into this essay because I feel strongly that The Tale of Two Fingers serves as an important reminder to all the stay-at-home and other moms, dads, and anyone who has a never-ending to-do list, to take it one task at a time. According to a study published in the National Library of Medicine, human brains developed to think about one thing at a time. Which means, try as we might, we’re just not cut out for paying complete attention to more than one thing at once. Which means multi-tasking won’t help you tick off to-dos any faster than single-tasking. My own studies show that doing too many things at once can actually lead to injury. It took this long to get to the point, but please, if you take nothing else from this self-indulgent essay, remember: Life is short, so dance, and clean, but don’t dance and clean. Slow down. Live in the moment. Spend as much time as humanly possible drinking in your baby’s face, but cut off eye contact before returning to the chore at hand. No matter how well you think you know a place, be aware of your surroundings. As my husband likes to say, “Focus!”
And always wash the cheese grater first.
Katherine Mansfield is a stay-at-home-mom and when-she-can-sneak-in-a-few-minutes-for-writing writer who runs on the sheer joy of parenthood, coffee, and homemade sweet potato crust pizza. first drafts is a free, reader-supported passion project. If you like what you read, consider sharing this with someone who might also like it; tipping the writer; or becoming a free or paid subscriber.
A play on words, from a quote in Finding Nemo: The sun is shining, the tank is clean.