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I loved , so much so that it outweighs my love of the creak of original wood floors. Almost. The first apartment my husband and I shared in our newlywed days was 800-square feet of cheap (but new!) carpet in a shade probably called Sand Dune or something similarly expected. I every single day. It felt like we were playing house, and I reveled in it. But I also experienced something more with each pass of the vacuum.
My childhood was one that was surrounded with cousins, aunts, and uncles. With my dad one of six and my mom one of eight, I never knew a quiet holiday. While a portion of our family was in the northeast, the masses were in Florida, all within an arm’s reach. As such, we constantly begged for cousin sleepovers, no matter how recently the last one went down. I would know we hit the jackpot when our bags were packed for a sleepover at one aunt’s house in particular.
For starters, she had great snacks—never a get-together without a pig in a blanket—and the best board games. But for me one of the main draws was her morning vacuuming ritual.
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