I don't know what got into B yesterday, but he went on a garage-cleaning tear. I woke up from my nap to find B and the girls and my car gone. They arrived soon after, with a trailer hooked to my car.
B worked in the garage for at least 12 hours, cleaning out shelves and baskets, corraling things into big plastic tubs that I made a Target run to buy, and sweeping and vacuuming everywhere. The floor is so clean that you can . . . well, you can walk across it barefoot without fear.
I should explain that our garage is a miniature one. Our house was built in the late '40s, and for some reason, the builder put in a garage that is about 3/4 the size of a one-car garage. Even if the garage were completely empty, we'd never be able to get a car in, well maybe a Mini-Cooper.
B emptied so much stuff out that the trailer is filled with things for the dump and Goodwill. And there is so much space! I can walk from the back to the front without having to hurdle bikes and strollers and wagons. There's enough space in front of the washer and dryer now that I can stack laundry baskets there and still open the dryer door.
B is so thrilled with his garage that he is out there right now, drinking his coffee, returning e-mails, and making phone calls. It could become his new office.