I tried to clean out the Ram today. Tried is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence.
Because cleaning out a truck with six kids is not cleaning. It is archaeology. You peel back the layers and every single one tells you exactly what kind of week it has been.
Top layer: fossilized french fries and a sock that belongs to no one I can identify. Second layer: a permission slip from last spring, a single Lego brick that has personally ended me more than once, and a hair tie collection that could stock a small store. Third layer, down where the seat meets the floor and only a mother's hand can reach: Oakley's missing shoe. Obviously. It was under the seat the whole time, exactly where I already looked three times.
Also recovered: Addison's library book, which is overdue in the way that only library books with my name on them ever are. And a granola bar from an era I cannot date and will not be eating. Some artifacts belong in a museum. That granola bar belongs in the trash.
So I sat in the driveway for a minute, had my exhale, and looked at the whole dig site. The truck floor is basically a diary. It remembers the week even when I am too tired to.
Did I finish cleaning it? Absolutely not. I closed the door, walked inside, and left the Ram to keep its secrets. The floor will still be there tomorrow. So will I.
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