But I never seem to remember to empty the canister. 

I grew up with vacuum bags, and those babies got swollen with dirt like a well fed tick. You took care ferrying it to the trash bins or you would have a dust explosion all over your mom's kitchen linoleum. Talk about fall out. But these days bags are out of fashion and you are supposed to balance the removable trunk of the machine over a trash can and flip the trap door. 

My son often picks that chore on Saturdays and amazing to me he empties the dirt before he even starts. That's because I neglected to do it all week. Maybe it is the feeling of being a dump truck driver that appeals to him. It makes the machine work better, which is a cause effect relationship that seems to stay in my memory about as long as the fourth step of directions when I stop to ask for them. 

John reminds me often enough when he finds the dirt crammed in so tightly it would suffice as wall insulation. He does not understand why a woman with an advanced degree and above average I.Q. cannot remember this bit of useful information. Neither do I. 

Sometimes I feel like an over full vacuum cleaner. I have absorbed the linty feelings and frustrations of a week of four kids, one husband and thirteen chickens and their respective stomachs. Each morning I am already checking my calendar and lists before my pants are on, multi tasking with laundry and the microwave. 

But occasionally I have the presence of mind to empty all that out. John and I will have a check in, or I will eat lunch with a friend and just unpack all those details cluttering the limited space that is my brain.

Then I am ready to suck it up some more.