Have you ever awakened with the one thought in mind, ‘Would someone please hand me a gun?’ My eyes open to my room, each and every morning, to observe the debris of last night, coats that can’t find hangers, cups that don’t know where the sink is, and trash brimming from the can. At this point, two options are open either shoot yourself, or get up and clean up. I may opt for the gun any day now, because the cleaning might kill but not quickly enough.
I want to yell at my kids, “Do I trash out your room?”
The problem is that we have a futon, on which we sleep, in the living room. That’s right we pay the rent and are the only ones in a three bedroom house that doesn’t have a bedroom. The why of it is simple. We were so bad about falling asleep in front of the television when our kids didn’t live here that we bought a futon; however, now, that they are back in the house we don’t get a lot of sleep anyway.
There are only two people in the house who know how to do dishes and they’re my husband and myself. Apparently, at some point, the dish becomes an object foreign to their senses. It was a dish when they ate from it but now, it’s become an object unworthy of their notice once it’s soiled. It’s a lot like the social existence of friends, when they love you, they're friends, piss them off and they're enemies. Dishes carry the same connotations, they’re clean and you can eat from them they’re dirty and you don’t want to see them.
What’s up with trash bags? Why is it that the moment the can becomes full it's also invisible?
I’ve discovered that even a three week old is capable of leaving his clothes lying about in the living room. How does he do that? He can’t walk and it’s a sure bet that he didn’t place them over the back of a chair, and yet, the clothing is there.
My kids, all three of the almost grown ones including my son-in-law, have no sense about dirt and the disease that accompanies it. I truly believe that they think the good housekeeping fairy comes to the house and cleans up after them. Please, if you have seen this woman, send her my way because the dad and I are tired and ready to jump ship. The clothes-washing fairy died of extreme abuse in our house, or was it exhaustion, I can’t remember. While the vacuum suffers from neglect, the broom has gone missing. The broom might have been broom napped we’re not sure. The dust bunny -- we're on first name basis now -- makes regular visits and has threatened to wipe out an entire bloodline with it’s existence.
The only being in the house that can’t be held responsible is the baby. He can’t talk back and is incapable of denying his culpability in the trashing of our room. Actually, he’s pretty cute. It’s really hard to imagine what he is laughing at, because of his age, but truly, it could be the stupidity of his grandparents. It’s possible that he lies there thinking, ‘Well, stupid, make them clean up their messes.’
I told my kids, the other night, that they each aggravated me equally. It’s the God’s honest truth, they do. I reserve the right to like my non-cohabitating children more than the ones that live in my house, and I have a lot of those (the adopted, or fully grown and gone ones). My husband, having trained him for many years now, has become the least aggravating and most helpful person in the house. Well, other than the baby, because he smiles a lot and I don’t believe it’s gas.
