by Brooke Steiner

Created on: August 26, 2008   Last Updated: September 01, 2008

I got a Roomba for Christmas a couple of years ago. My mother-in-law is notorious for throwing money at whatever trend makes its way into her field of vision. It sat in the box for months, having deemed it a waste before the wrapping paper fell away.

From my wheelchair I had the perfect angle to see that two kids and spring dirt were winning the coup to overthrow orderliness. I have often said that sweeping and vacuuming are the hardest chores to do from the chair, stretching and straining to reach every piece of paper, lint and dirt. The hated but necessary task always brought the swears and cusses so close to my lips that some would leap out of my mouth before I could wrangle them back in. After pulling several muscles in my back, repeatedly dropping the handle of the broom hard onto my bare feet and losing the vacuum under the kitchen table, I had had enough. I busted out the Roomba from the sealed box. I pulled out everything, scratched my head for a moment, then opened the owner's manual.

I charged it over night, not wanting the battery to harbor any bad memories. I cleared the downstairs floor of all debris, socks, legos, etc. I corralled the kids upstairs with SpongeBob, then pressed the "clean" button. I had taken the time to set up false walls under the kitchen cabinets that lacked a kick plate and flooring after a few inches. It spun concentric, widening circles before it took off in whatever direction it felt would be good. It crawled and sucked all over the floor, and easly made the transition between bare floor and area rug. It ran for over an hour, and I studied every move it made. I was unable to divine the method of its journey, but after it docked itself like an exhausted lover, I cried. The floor was without bits of crap, or sand, or dried macaroni. How could I have misjudged such a vital new member of the family.

After I served lunch, and let the Roomba charge, I schlepped it upstairs, one step at a time, with me crawling up from behind. I covered the couches with toys and juice cups, and half eaten bowls of dry Cheerios. We turned it on, and marveled at how good the carpet looked. It really was a miracle.

I now have a Scooba for washing the bare floors, and it, too, has become a member of the family, only not as close as Roomba since she can't plug herself in. Both IRobot beauties now are referred to as "she" or "her", and are to be respected at all cost. My husband says that they don't do quite as good of a job as when you do it by hand, but I say they do a much better job than me not doing it at all. Sometimes I hear moms say not to worry about the messes you or your kids make, they "have a lady." I find myself sharing that sentiment, pnly I get to say, "Not to worry, I have robots!"

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