summer di·chot·o·my
1. Division between parental unit and offspring in the months of June, July & August in the USA.2. Division into mutually exclusive, polar opposites or contradictory family units revolving around separate versions of reality involving issues regarding laundry, cooking, edible food groups, friends, hours of sleep, hygiene, cleanliness, treating parents like mobile ATM"s and the definitions of need vs. want in the non-school mandated time schedules
3. The fine line between calm friend-based parenting and outright dictatorship, reciting penal codes and the definition of the right side of the law in the months proceeding last report card and the annual anticipation of a child living at home for life because they cannot function in "real" society, i.e. hold a job, manage money or live a healthy life.
Ahh, summer time. Hot breezes are blowing, beautiful colors are blooming & time seems never ending-- never ending bickering over who ate all the ice cream, what chore which child was oblivious to carrying out this week and whose turn it is to walk the dog. Tempers flare each morning (the parents), swearing is abundant (the kids) and the house is waist deep in unwashed laundry, food crusted frying pans, wet towels & dirty socks while empty pop cans, tiny juice box straws, Popsicle sticks & freezi-pop wrappers line the backsides of couches, beds and closets.
And it doesn't matter what you do. Get up early, and pick up the mess before work. Leave notes with carefully devised chore lists for them to do while you work. Stay up late with them and get everyone to pick up the clutter together. It just grows. And it ferments. And impregnates itself and doubles overnight. My Mom always had the perfect house, and God help us if we left a wet suit on the carpet in our bedrooms, she would hunt us down to pick it up before we even did it. She was that good.
I can't seem to get that tight a grip. I just try to stop the hemorrhaging of excess to keep some semblance of order. Empty the garbage, change the bag. Load the dishwasher. Throw the towels in the laundry. Run upstairs, get the laundry on the floor up there, run downstairs, stoop down, pick up the lone wash cloth in the middle of the upstairs hall. Smile happily that all looks good, come home at night, put on hip boots, rewind, repeat, do over. Especially the darn wash cloth in the upstairs hall. Pick it up again.
Laundry can reach comical proportions with us, it can be 15 loads deep and funny to even try to dress, find the socks, the underwear, harvest a clean towel or wash cloth. More than once one boy was running through the house screaming at the other to stop wearing his underwear. Too funny. And look, there's no wash cloths again. Do more laundry, repeat, do over. Pick up, there's the loan wash clothes again.
I couldn't figure out the wash cloths, its not like the kids are picking up the laundry off the floor of the upstairs bath & dropping them on their way downstairs to the laundry room; why are they up on the floor all the time? And then Colleen stopped; we're chatting while my hubby changes her oil.In her car (get your mind out of the gutter). And she stop mid-sentence, and talks in her voice reserved for very small children, "Now Molly where are you going with that wash clothe?" And there's the dog, creeping up the stairs real slow like she does when she's stolen chicken wings out of the garbage & doesn't want us to see she's eating out of Molly's take out AGAIN.
She's been eating the darn wash clothes, picking them up and carrying them upstairs. Wow, maybe I can train her to pick up the rest of the stuff. You tube here we come. I can make my millions, and hire a darn maid to get through these summers. But you know what? When they're all gone in a few years, I am sure I will miss the mess.
Well, maybe not.
Ahh, summer time. Hot breezes are blowing, beautiful colors are blooming & time seems never ending-- never ending bickering over who ate all the ice cream, what chore which child was oblivious to carrying out this week and whose turn it is to walk the dog. Tempers flare each morning (the parents), swearing is abundant (the kids) and the house is waist deep in unwashed laundry, food crusted frying pans, wet towels & dirty socks while empty pop cans, tiny juice box straws, Popsicle sticks & freezi-pop wrappers line the backsides of couches, beds and closets.
And it doesn't matter what you do. Get up early, and pick up the mess before work. Leave notes with carefully devised chore lists for them to do while you work. Stay up late with them and get everyone to pick up the clutter together. It just grows. And it ferments. And impregnates itself and doubles overnight. My Mom always had the perfect house, and God help us if we left a wet suit on the carpet in our bedrooms, she would hunt us down to pick it up before we even did it. She was that good.
I can't seem to get that tight a grip. I just try to stop the hemorrhaging of excess to keep some semblance of order. Empty the garbage, change the bag. Load the dishwasher. Throw the towels in the laundry. Run upstairs, get the laundry on the floor up there, run downstairs, stoop down, pick up the lone wash cloth in the middle of the upstairs hall. Smile happily that all looks good, come home at night, put on hip boots, rewind, repeat, do over. Especially the darn wash cloth in the upstairs hall. Pick it up again.
Laundry can reach comical proportions with us, it can be 15 loads deep and funny to even try to dress, find the socks, the underwear, harvest a clean towel or wash cloth. More than once one boy was running through the house screaming at the other to stop wearing his underwear. Too funny. And look, there's no wash cloths again. Do more laundry, repeat, do over. Pick up, there's the loan wash clothes again.
I couldn't figure out the wash cloths, its not like the kids are picking up the laundry off the floor of the upstairs bath & dropping them on their way downstairs to the laundry room; why are they up on the floor all the time? And then Colleen stopped; we're chatting while my hubby changes her oil.In her car (get your mind out of the gutter). And she stop mid-sentence, and talks in her voice reserved for very small children, "Now Molly where are you going with that wash clothe?" And there's the dog, creeping up the stairs real slow like she does when she's stolen chicken wings out of the garbage & doesn't want us to see she's eating out of Molly's take out AGAIN.
She's been eating the darn wash clothes, picking them up and carrying them upstairs. Wow, maybe I can train her to pick up the rest of the stuff. You tube here we come. I can make my millions, and hire a darn maid to get through these summers. But you know what? When they're all gone in a few years, I am sure I will miss the mess.
Well, maybe not.
