I take a few tentative steps forward and then launch myself headfirst, arms outward, my belly cushioning me from the hard surface. I slide six or eight feet, the slippery coating facilitating my movement. I giggle and squirm – and get up and do it again. I do not wonder about the consequences of my actions – or when I will be called to quit. I just concentrate on my form, trying to squeeze out longer and longer slides within the confines of my play space.
I am not reveling outdoors on a rubberized water slide. I am indoors on a linoleum kitchen floor with my older sister.
Our mother was a woman raised with a mid-western farm girl upbringing, which included daily chores. The family work ethic was founded on primarily household duties for the girls (though they also fed the chickens) and farm tasks for the boys. My mother incorporated her family culture into ours. My childhood days included helping with dinner dishes, changing bed sheets, cleaning my room, sweeping, vacuuming, washing the concrete front porch, and setting the table for dinner.
When I was about six years old, my mother decided that my nine-year-old sister and I should wash the kitchen floor. She filled a bucket with water and liquid soap and gave us a mop. After instructing us on how to squeeze the excess water out of the mop, she disappeared into another area of the house to complete other tasks.
Lynn dutifully mopped for a while, and I washed the floor on my hands and knees using a dish rag. Then we got sloppy and failed to wring the mop out thoroughly. The extra water on the floor was slippery and a little intoxicating. We decided that if a little extra water was entrancing, then more would be better. We tipped the pail and deliberately spilled water on the linoleum, squeezing extra soap onto the floor for good measure.
We continued to go through the motions of cleaning, casually moving the mop and dish rag around with indifference to the outcome. Then we discarded the pretense of cleaning and began sliding on the floor on foot, suppressing hysterical screeches when we fell. More water and extra suds ensued, allowing us to fling ourselves onto the floor with full frontal abandon. Laughing, gliding, skimming – we gave no thought to whether we were damaging the floor, the cabinets, or the appliances. It was too much fun to be diminished by such considerations. When we tired, we lay on the floor blowing soapy bubbles, my sister’s prowess resulting in orbs larger than her head.
My mother entered the room to check on the progress of our assignment and gaped at what she saw, her eyes blinking in disbelief. The room was a puddly, bubbly mess. We hopped up and feigned diligence, grabbing towels with a façade of wiping the floor. She hurried from the room, presumably to find our father to help exact punishment on their miscreant progeny. Lynn and I looked at each other with regret – but with less contrition than the situation called for.
Our mom returned - not with the family taskmaster but with her ever-present 45 mm camera. She feigned irritation but her exasperation was tempered by delight in watching the creative play of her children. We went back to skimming and slipping around, our giggles unfettered by the fear of being caught, while she laughed quietly, her camera changing angles while the shutter clicked.
When we were done, she sighed the resigned exhalation of parental obligation. She picked up a broom, opened the back door, and began sweeping volumes of water outside. Lynn and I, relieved at evading retribution for our mischief, helped by wiping the floor with as many towels as we could find.
When we finished, the kitchen floor shone with cleanliness, the linoleum buffed to perfection. Lynn and I glanced at each with relief and solidarity, having dodged parental penalty for misbehavior once again.