It’s that time of year — spring Christmas cleaning.

I’ve written before about K and the level of Christmas cleaning she requires:

The Dirty Stairs

The window is not dirty; it’s fogged from the gas in between the two panes doing something funky.

That required level of cleanliness now drives the Girl mad. “Why are madre’s standards so high?” (She’s been calling us madre and padre for about a year now. Why? Because.)

“Because they are.” We try to reassure her that it’s good practice for “real life.” “You might get a boss with impossibly high standards. You’ll be used to it.”

I don’t know if she buys it.