Then I married and things grew a bit more complicated. We divided chores according to abilities and interests. I drew laundry – not because I
liked it, but because I have mastered the exotic talent of clothes sorting, something my spouse does not understand, leaving me with a whole wardrobe full of very expensive Barbie doll clothes to prove it. But
it wasn't until we had children that I really knew what dirt was. Up until then, my husband and I were merely dabbling in the minor leagues – we thought working full time and keeping the house and yard squared away was
a tough job. We were innocents, babes in the woods until we the Godfather of Dirt and his sister – Lucrezia Clotheshamper.
My children have rolled from toddler-hood – where picking up their own toys was a game
for them -- to preteen angst every time they're asked to put their own clothes in their own hampers. We have daily scenes such as this:
Me: Son, what are these clothes doing on the floor?
Godfather: (With puzzled expression) Because that's where I put them, Mom.
Me: (Incredulous) But you dropped them right next to the clothes hamper! Why?
Son: Because that's where I took them off.
Well, du-uh on me! Of course, things are no better with Lucrezia who, upon threat of disembowelment, ambles upstairs to clean her room, then – five minutes
later – returns to the den to inform me she's finished. I climb the stairs and see absolutely no difference. Before looks exactly like after. When I inquire as to what she cleaned, she pouts and says, "I threw all of
the old food away!"
Oh. I guess hurling petrified French fries and Pop Tart debris into the trash makes up for the unmade bed, wet towels, carpet with enough things growing in it to qualify for a Federal crop
subsidy, empty clothes hamper next to the pile of dirty clothes, a closet that contains everything but clothes, hardened blobs of nail polish and a trash can that has never been emptied because nothing has ever been
placed in it.
I have tried to convert them to higher standards, I really have, but it's like attempting to recruit Castro as an Avon representative: some things are more difficult than others.
I've sent
them back upstairs to clean their rooms and that nasty science experiment of a bathroom so many times they've worn a groove in the carpet. In fact, I made my son clean the bathroom he shares with his sister just the
other day. He was gone for all of 14 minutes.
"Well?" I asked him as he ambled back down the stairs. "Is the bathroom clean?"
"Yes Ma'am. It's immensely clean," he told me. "Uh, Mom, what does immense
mean?"
"Big," I said. "So, before you go outside, you are certifying to me that your bathroom is both big and clean. Is that correct?"
He paused on his way out of the door and turned around.
"Well, it's clean enough for a girl," he said as he stepped outside.
Hmmm. I wonder which girl he's talking about? Me or his sister?
