One Little, Two Little, Three Little Vacuum Cleaners… (Okay, Four)
Let me just say it: this is not something you can make up. You’d think I’d learn after vacuum #1. Or #2. Or maybe even #3. But no. This is real life, and in this house, it took One Little Two Little Three Little Vacuum Cleaners (four vacuums) to clean one stinky boys’ room.
Some things should stay inside the four walls of your home, but here I am… telling the internet.
This is a no-judgment zone, right?
The Great De-Funking
The mission was simple: tackle the disaster zone that was my boys’ bedroom. The smell alone could knock you down. I didn’t want to subject any innocent human (myself included) to it, but it had to be done.
I was in a hurry. The kids—all six of them—warned me. One by one, they said, “Mom, don’t go in there,” or “Mom, let us help,” but I brushed them off. I didn’t want them to see me purging the clutter (or throwing away things they’d surely argue to keep).
I gutted the room except for the beds. One bunkbed and a captain’s-style bed with drawers underneath. I had piles everywhere: Legos, clothes, stuffed animals, papers, dress-up clothes—you name it.
Then came the Bumblebee.
Vacuum #1 – R.I.P. Bumblebee
This big, bright yellow vacuum was my pride and joy. I pulled it out, determined to suck up every crumb, dust bunny, and unidentifiable object off the floor.
From there, I stretched the hose into the tiny closet, the vacuum sitting peacefully in the middle of the room. Honestly, I was completely focused on cleaning out the grime. So focused, in fact, that I ignored a growing smell of smoke.
Then came the kids again:
“Mom, the hallway is filled with smoke.”
“Something’s burning.”
“Do you smell that?”
I brushed them off—because I was in the zone. And because I didn’t see smoke, surely there was no smoke.
Wrong.
I finally glanced over at the vacuum and had a fleeting thought: I thought this vacuum was yellow… not orange.
That’s because it was on fire.
Turns out I had sucked up a pair of Catfish’s nylon army pants. They got tangled in the roller, heated up, and caught fire. I unplugged it as fast as I could, but it was too late. The pants were toast, and so was my beloved vacuum. Not the “pull it apart and clean it out” kind of dead. Nope. This was the “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” kind of dead.
Vacuum #2 – Bissell and Betrayal
After the loss of Bumblebee, I turned to my trusty Bissell hardwood floor vacuum. Lightweight, sleek, and oh-so-satisfying with its “ping ping” sound when it picked up dirt.
Big Daddy thought I was vacuuming too much with it when we first got it. I thought I was simply embracing joy.
But this vacuum was not made for carpet.
Yet, there I was again—zipping through the house, trying to finish cleaning. And what did I see surrounding me? A trail of smoke.
Yep. My sweet little Bissell was on fire too. Strike two.
Vacuum #3 – Borrowed and Burned
My dear friend Melissa lent me her vacuum. I was overjoyed. A “real” vacuum again! Surely, this time would be different.
I used it.
Loved it.
I returned it.
A few days later, Melissa called:
“I think my vacuum is on fire.”
Bless it. I burned up her vacuum too.
Vacuum #4 – And Still, She Smelled Smoke
Someone else gave me a really nice, used vacuum—big and sturdy. I was cleaning again this week when it happened.
You guessed it.
Smoke.
Again.
I Don’t Get It.
Seriously, I just don’t get it. I like to vacuum. Honestly, I really do. I love the instant gratification of seeing messes disappear. But for the life of me, I cannot figure out how I’ve managed to set FOUR vacuums ablaze.
Is it me? The house? Is it a sign to stop cleaning?
All I know is, the next time the kids tell me something is wrong, I should probably listen.
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