Spring Cleaning: Who is Really Doing the Cleaning?

By Matthew Dicks  /  Illustrated By Sean Wang 

In the darkest hours of the night, when the house is quiet and all are asleep, I like to think about what it’s like for other people. For the people who don’t have to live with my people.  Don’t get me wrong, I love my people. 

My wife, Elysha, is a beautiful and funny woman who makes an amazing macaroni and cheese, and when she plays the ukulele, sings, or dances, it makes me swoon. My daughter, Clara, is a smart, empathetic teenager who has the most interesting collection of friends and worries about anyone in trouble. She doesn’t have a phone and doesn’t want one. My son, Charlie, has annoyingly perfect pitch, takes apart devices to see how they tick and loves attending Styx concerts with me. 

I adore each one of them. They are also monsters. 

When it comes to spring cleaning—the cleaning, culling and tossing away of unneeded and unwanted things—my family are like three blind mice. Completely oblivious to the steady acquisition of things in our home and ignorant to the idea that if you haven’t touched something in more than a decade, you might not need it.

As a result, spring cleaning is a more complex process for me than most. It’s not simply cleaning; it also involves subterfuge, obfuscation, negotiation and deception. 

Making this process even more frustrating is that when it comes to my own personal spring cleaning, it’s almost unnecessary. Every day is an April day for me. I am constantly seeking out things to eliminate from my life and simplify my existence. 

Haven’t worn a shirt in six months? Apparently, I don’t need it, so goodbye! 

I find two of the same sized screwdrivers in my toolbox? Begone, you repetitive bit of steel and plastic!

Haven’t opened a plastic bin in three years? I don’t even look inside. Anything inside is clearly not needed. Toss it away! 

As a result, I am always spring cleaning; I am always culling and editing and eliminating. In the unlikely event that I someday die, my children will ideally find a few things I was using on a daily basis, a file cabinet of organized documents and mementos, and nothing more.

You’re welcome, monsters. 

This attitude is in diametric opposition to my family; they see no need to ever throw anything away. It’s not that they are hoarders. They don’t place emotional attachment to any item. They don’t cling to material possessions for dear life. They simply don’t care if it’s in our home or not. 

I have watched a Sephora bag sit in the corner of the living room for months, containing—at least at the time of purchase—some critical skin care product. But since arriving in our home and being arbitrarily placed in the corner, it has not moved. Other than a cat occasionally chewing on the handles, that bag has remained in the corner, untouched and unnoticed.

And therein lies the problem: it’s not that the monsters think that a Sephora bag occupying the corner of a room for decades is a good idea. They just don’t see it. The bag is a constant, glowing, radioactive, flaming lighthouse to me, tainting everything like the eye of Sauron from its unholy perch. But, to my family, it’s invisible. They can’t see it. This is what I live with.

So, when it comes to spring cleaning, not only do I need to excise the Sephora bag, but I need to do it in a way that actually makes its disappearance happen. Simply saying, “Can you take care of that Sephora bag?” will almost certainly yield nothing. That’s because my plea for freedom from clutter often amounts to: “Can you remove that unseen thing from the unseen place that does not bother you in any way?”

It will never happen.

Instead, I remove the contents from the Sephora bag, wrap them up in a lovely box, affix an equally lovely card, and give the contents to my wife. I hope she has forgotten about the original purchase and now sees this skin care product as a gift, purchased just days ago, rather than my attempt to manipulate her into getting rid of her mess. 

My son receives his monthly science kit and builds a crossbow, electronic ice pick or fusion reactor. After playing with it for about 19 seconds, he drops it on the kitchen island, seemingly declaring this to be its new home. If I did not intervene, it would never be touched again. It would sit there for ages, collecting dust, interfering with cooking and eating but never put away.

Never even being assigned a place to put it away. 

So, what do I do?

I move this item to a secret staging area in my home, where it will be quarantined with similarly ignored items for three months. If Charlie doesn’t mention his fusion reactor during the quarantine period, it will disappear forever. If he asks about it prior to the end of its quarantine, I’ll throw on my cape and mask and transform into a superhero, suddenly remembering having seen it a little while ago and emerging with it moments later, miraculously in my hands. 

“Hooray for Daddy! He always saves the day!”

And when Charlie places it back on the kitchen island, which he will almost certainly do, the process will begin again until I can finally make it disappear permanently. 

If it wasn’t for me, our home would be impenetrable. A fortress of objects. A solid box of stuff. 

My family believes that every empty surface is available for storage. Every expiration date on every food item in the pantry is irrelevant. Every drawer is designed for junk. They see the garage as a place to throw lots of stuff but never park cars. Every hamper is a secondary dresser. 

Three years ago, I confiscated every hamper in the house. I couldn’t take it anymore. 

So, as spring arrives and I scan the landscape of my home, I will begin plotting against the monsters, finding ways to quietly remove books and clothing and toys and art supplies and cooking implements and everything else that was once put down by a member of my family, only to ever be seen again by me.

Is this how everyone lives? Is every family comprised of a collection of monsters alongside one brave, unheralded hero must battle every day lest the wave of stuff overwhelm them all?

If so, I salute you, fellow heroes and heroines. May your spring cleaning be accomplished with as little suffering and as much subterfuge as possible.

Matthew Dicks is an elementary school teacher, bestselling novelist and a record 55-time Moth Story SLAM champion. His latest books are Twenty-one Truths About Love and The Other Mother.

Sean Wang, an MIT architecture graduate, is author of the sci-fi graphic novel series, Runners. Learn more at seanwang.com.