dailydiatribes

Ah, Saturday morning.  A time for leisurely reading the paper.  A time to watch cartoons.  A time to dawdle over breakfast and listen to the bluebirds chirping as they smack into the window.  A time to clean the house.

We live in squalor.  We have an attractive brick home and from the outside, it looks very respectably middle class.  However, to pass through its front doors is to enter the crack house from hell.  You can't come in the front door without tripping over a pile of Josh's smelly laundry.  No toting of the Pottery Barn limited edition monogrammed wicker laundry baskets down the stairs for my children.  No, they simply stand at the rail and heave their dirty underwear over the side like so much unwanted ballast.  Charming.

So the front rooms are filled with laundry in various stages.  Dirty laundry, waiting to be sorted and washed.  Clean laundry, piled in baskets, slowly wrinkling into something resembling a shar-pei.  Folded laundry languishing on the sofa, sadly waiting for some owner to claim it and put it away.  Yeah, right, like that's going to happen! Shirts and slacks adorn the backs of the dining room chairs, anxiously waiting their turn to be hung.  See above pronouncement on the likelihood of that.

Come on into the kitchen and trip over the watermelon that's been sitting on the air conditioning vent for a week.  My brilliant husband put it there to chill.  I said "dang honey, why'ont you put that sucker in the crick to cool?" but he wouldn't listen.  No one has touched it because none of us like to cut up watermelon.  Avoid the watermelon and step in one of the dog food bowls that attractively range around my kitchen floor like land mines, waiting to annihilate the unsuspecting.  One is metal, and it really wakes you up when someone inadvertantly kicks it across the floor.  Unless, of course, it sticks to the floor, which has been known to happen.

Pass on into the family room and you'll probably step into a large wet spot composed of puppy urine and Spot Shot.  Yes, we foolishly acquired a golden retriever puppy.  She is a precious, cunning little fluff ball!  Who voids her bladder every fifteen minutes on the carpet.  Doesn't matter whether she just spent two hours outside, she's not going to pass up a chance to mark the carpet.  If you miss the urine, you will almost certainly trip over a pile of shoes belonging to the blonde goddess.  I picked up 13 pairs this morning.  Imelda Marcos would gnash her teeth in envy over the child's shoe collection.  And heaven forbid we should wear the same pair twice.  Or put them away after we've worn them.  No, we keep them attractively displayed in the middle of the floor in case we get an urge to change them mid-morning. 

This morning, I declared war.  Every so often, the clutter gets so bad, it impedes the flow of creative juices.  There's something soul destroying about tripping over the same pile of towels 5 days in a row.  So I casually began assigning tasks to the older children.  First, I asked Abby to unload the dishwasher.

This was met with the predictable wail of "It's not my turn!!!  I just did it!!!  Why can't Josh do it????  Why doesn't Anna do anything??? It's NOT FAIR!!!!!"  I continued to ask in a very calm, pleasant tone, until I wore her down and she did it.  Elated by my success, I allowed a few minutes to pass, then I asked her to clean the bathroom.  She erupted into a frenzy.

"WHY do we have to WORK on SATURDAY?????  It's supposed to be a day for fun and you have to RUIN it by making us work.  IT'S NOT FAIR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"  I completely agree, and I suggest one you readers call DHR immediately and have these children removed from my care for the abuse I have heaped upon them.  However, I continued to pleasantly insist and eventually, she subsided to the bathroom with a huff.

Ten minutes later, she emerged and walked into my bedroom where I was folding the shar-peis and said "I'm sorry.  I love you."  And she put her head on my shoulder.  Such a tender moment.  Until I asked her to take her clothes upstairs.

She danced away from me in a rage.  "Why ARE you SO MEAN?" she snarled.  "You keep making me do everything and no one else has to do anything.  Why do I have to do ALL the work???"  I sensibly pointed out that Josh was downstairs cleaning the basement and that the goddess was frolicking in the woods, as six year olds do.  I pointed out that when she was six, I required nothing more of her than to flush the toilet after she was done.  "Yeah, but Josh is older than me and he didn't have to do anything then either." 

I decided it was unwise to continue arguing with her and so I calmly asked her to put her clothes away.  She grabbed them and stomped all the way up the stairs and slammed her door.  I am sure every stomp was meant to be a dagger to my mother's heart, a reminder of the injustices I had visited upon this child I was supposed to love and cherish.  In fact, it made me remember she needs to vacuum the stairs next.  Batten down the hatches y'all, cause the hurricane is comin'!!!