Spreading it Around

Like I've mentioned before, I don't make chore charts for our kids. You'd think that the genuine happiness I derive from being organized and my love of making lists would result in an affection for chore charts, but that would be wrong. Sitting down to make a chore chart would just be another chore, and the time spent A) creating the chart; B) color-coding the thing; C) coming up with chores (I know there are plenty of chores to choose from, but I need to think of ones that I don't care how they're done because after all, it's the kids doing them, not me) and then D) making sure that everyone was doing what they are supposed to, is time that I could have just done the stupid chores myself. In addition, I'm able to complete the chores nag-free, do a much better job and be done in a fraction of the time that it would have taken them, only letting out an occasional sigh or glare of frustration because no one is helping me.

Oh the joys of being a martyr.

Yesterday was one of those days that I never stopped moving and everyone was smart enough to pretty much just stay out of my way. Bathrooms were de-gunked, floors were vacuumed, baseboards were scrubbed and cobwebs that had not even formed yet were abolished. In addition, because I was washing every piece of bedding in the house, I made about 1,832 trips up and down the stairs while hauling comforters, pillows, blankets and sheets.

Because I didn't want to make trip #1,833, I asked Zach to bring one last blanket up to his room. It was fresh from the dryer, folded, and had been placed right next to him on the couch with the simple request of "please go put this in your room."

"Oh. Kay." was the reply, but with a very detectable hint of gruntish caveman accent. And then not only did he not spring to his feet, grab the blanket and bound up the stairs two at a time with a sure mom, and thanks for doing all that laundry, but he sat there, staring at his iPhone, continuing on his quest to make a permanent butt dent in the couch cushion.

Three hours later, the blanket was still sitting on the couch untouched, unless you want to count the fact that it had been briefly used for his feet. I think what happened next included hissed phrases like "thanks a lot for a whole bunch of nothing" and "oh that's okay, it's not like I've been doing anything for you today, don't feel like you need to do something to help me out" as I snatched the blanket off the couch and threw it on his bed, resisting the urge to sneeze on it and/or wipe the dog's butt with it.

Zoe, however, was more than happy to help out. While I was in her room (which was completely picked up) I found a white microfiber rag on the floor. When I asked her what it was for, she said "I saw you cleaning, so I thought I'd help out by dusting all the tables and door knobs." Yay for the creation of one helpful kid! This is completely kick ass! Soon enough she'll be scrubbing soap scum, washing the hardwood floors and...wait a second... is that orange trim on that microfiber rag? Zoe, where did you find that rag?

"It was on that bench, by the front door. It works really good, after I got the little pieces of grass off of it. You can have it now, though, cuz I did all the tables and stuff."

Our new puppy, Danger, has the cutest paws -- kind of chunky and covered in wispy curls of cream colored dog hair. Since Danger is in turbo house training mode, he goes outside, on average, 382 times a day. Sometimes he goes out, does his business, and then heads right back in. Most of the time, though, the business is preceded and followed up by mad dashes back and forth through the wet grass and leaves, occasionally running through the spot where he just peed, sufficiently coating his cute paws with not-so-cute goo. Also, because we have a boy dog, there is the um, issue.

Let's see, how can I put this... You know how when you turn a faucet off there's often one last drop of water stuck to the end? And then if you were to touch the end of the faucet (often not intentionally) that small drop of water ends up on your hand? Well, Danger is the owner of a faucet. Except his faucet also has a little tuft of hair on the end.

Because I hate having wet, grass-covered puppy paws running through the house, and because I really don't enjoy having dog pee on my hands, I keep a microfiber rag by the front door for paw and faucet wiping purposes. An orange-trimmed, white microfiber rag.

And now, in addition to paw and faucet wiping, I can add table and door knob cleaning to that list.

Just Pick It Up!

In case you're wondering the answer is yes, we still have the dog. He's almost 15 in dog years, but smells like he's 893 in people years and even though he doesn't have that much hair to begin with, the shedding is out of control. In fact, I think he's actually growing hair just so that it can immediately fall out and piss me off. Also, except for an unfortunate accident a couple days ago, he's been pretty good about making it outside to crap. And while I'm happy about this, I'd be even happier if it weren't for the fact that I'm the only one that is capable of seeing piles of dog shit in the backyard and has the skills necessary to operate a pooper scooper.

On Monday, before I cut the grass, I picked up the dog shit. Completing this chore is an absolute necessity because if the lawn mower goes over a piece of crap that is less than two days old and isn't dried into an almost petrified-state, it clings to the mower blades and I end up walking behind the mower with shit fumes wafting around me. I do not enjoy this experience, especially since it ends up making everything, even a post-mow beer, seem unappetizing.

When Charlie went outside yesterday afternoon to play baseball with some friends in the backyard, I mentioned to him that he might want to take a quick look around for poop and if he sees some, pick it up. This, of course, resulted in no reaction from him. Nothing. No "Uh huh" or "That's gross I'm not going to do it" or "Oh, did you say something?" Not even a questioning glare that wordlessly said "Are you crazy, woman?" Zilch reaction. Apparently, since I was standing on the deck when I said this to him, he thought I must have been talking to a chair, or maybe the grill. So I said again, a little bit louder this time, that unless he wants his friends to fall in a fairly fresh pile of dog crap, he should probably walk around, find the poop, wrap his fingers around the handle of the scooper and PICK THE CRAP UP!

He not only heard me this time, but his brain even managed to process the directions. Or more accurately, he managed to partially process the directions, because instead of walking around he just stood in one place, glanced at the grass and said "Nope, I don't see any." Since I refused to let him off the hook and treat him like the incompetent idiot that he was clearly trying to be, I stood on the deck and waved my arms around like an air traffic controller, guiding him to the two piles of shit that were clearly visible and resisting the urge to bludgeon him with the pooper scooper.

Doug recently sent me an article about some researchers at Berkeley that managed to teach a robot how to fold a towel. (You can view the video and read the article here) To me, the most impressive part of this news isn't the fact that robots can be taught how to do stuff like fold towels, it's that they are able to recognize that what they are holding is, in fact, a towel and that the item can be folded. And not only does it know that it can fold the towel, but it folds at a speed of 25 minutes per towel which, as Doug pointed out, is just slightly faster than an 11-year-old boy.

Now, if they could just teach the robot how to identify that a pile of dog crap is, in fact, a pile of dog crap that can be picked up, I'll really be impressed and may even want to buy a robot of my own someday. Honestly, though, I'd probably kind of miss receiving all those glares. Maybe they could teach the robot how to do that, too.

Practice Makes Perfect

While looking at the calendar this weekend, I realized that it is the last week of January, which means that there are only about four months of school left, which made me say, "Holy shit."

Since there isn't much time, I figured now would be a good time to make a list of things that my kids could start working on if they want me to stay sane this summer, because after all; practice makes perfect. I wouldn't go so far as to call this a list of demands, since it's more like "suggestions that they should strongly consider if they want to experience summer vacation living in a house where mom isn't screaming all the time and threatening to run away."

1. When taking your socks off, if you notice a hole in one of them, it's okay to throw it away instead of putting it in the laundry basket. I really don't need to wash the sock before it ends up in the garbage.
2. When you see something on the floor that isn't yours, but you know where it belongs, instead of just stepping over it, please inconvenience yourself for eight seconds by picking the item up and putting it away. I promise, you won't burst into flames.
3. It's a cell phone, not a magical teleporting device. If you need a ride home, a little bit of advance notice would be helpful. As shocking as this might be, I don't pass the time while you're gone by standing next to the door with my shoes on, keys in hand, waiting to leap into action.
4. Like the phone, the car is also not a teleporting device. If you need to be somewhere at 2:00, and that somewhere is a place other than the end of our driveway, we will need to leave before 2:00.
5. While I don't expect to hear, "Thank you for driving me around this afternoon, and I heard everything you just said to me and won't forget any of it," hearing "Um, yeah, what?" is more than a little bit irritating.
6. Stop abusing the rewind feature of DVR, and start paying attention.
7. I don't answer your absurd requests with a "No" just so that I can hear you say, "Why?" If you think I'll say no, then don't ask.
8. There is a bag inside the kitchen recycling bin, and despite appearances, even when it's full, it's not very heavy and it's removable. And for your information, full is defined as: Nothing else, no matter how much you smash and shove, will fit.
9. When you're getting dressed in the morning, if you think the shirt and pants/shorts don't match, go with that thought.
10. Stop having a "let's see who can make the most annoying sound in the world" contest, because believe me, you're all winners.

Child Labor

At some point in the future, I would like to think that my boys will eventually move out and be able to survive for more than a couple days by themselves. Judging by their current lack of self-sufficiency, though, it's difficult for me to imagine anything besides them wandering around aimlessly, wondering what to do about the dirty laundry that is piling up, the scum on the toilet, and the sensation of hunger that just doesn't seem to go away no matter how many times they think about food.

I will be the first to admit that my almost-a-control freak personality, lack of patience, and high expectations don't help the situation. I know that there are simple chores that they should be expected to do without me having to ask, but for me, having to watch someone else do a crappy job cleaning a bathroom or washing a pan in a weird way is a painful, anxiety-inducing experience.

They're good about cleaning up their own dishes and keeping their rooms clean, but I figured it was time to start expecting more. So, after I pulled a load of towels out of the dryer, I plopped the basket on the floor and asked Charlie to fold them. This seemed like the perfect job because since they're just towels, I could have cared less how they were folded. Really. It doesn't matter. Just fold them any old way. After all, no one is going to come bursting through the door to check how the towels are folded, so who cares how they're folded? Not me, that's for sure.

Okay, the truth is that all of the towels in this particular load just get hung up on hooks anyway, so they don't even need to be folded. I am actually really picky about how the towels are folded before they go on shelves, but there's no way in hell I'd expect my kid to understand why this is important to me. After all, I don't even understand.

Charlie was watching football and perfecting his half-sitting/half-laying down posture on the couch, and when I asked him to fold the towels he looked at me like I had obviously been smoking something. He eventually managed to rise from the couch, approach the basket, and then attempted to fold the towels while using body language that said, "I regret having the use of my arms."

Meanwhile, I sat on the couch and tried to ignore the beads of sweat that were forming along my hairline. It wasn't the fact that a blind person using only his feet would have done a better job, it was the way he was acting. It was like I said: "Hey Charlie. Do me a favor and walk two miles to the chicken coop, grab a chicken, hack off its head, pull out the feathers, take out the guts, and make me some soup. And while the soup is simmering, fold these towels."

After I watched him for a minute or so I couldn't stand it, so I started laughing. I had to laugh, otherwise I would have looked like a crazy person having a fit of anger over towels. I ended up just folding the things myself before I hauled them upstairs and hung them on the hooks where they belonged. Yes, I could have just done this to begin with and avoided this whole confrontation, but then Charlie would have missed out on learning the valuable lesson of: If I do a crappy job and complain enough, then mom will just laugh at me for a little while and eventually just do the job herself, and probably never ask me to do that job ever again.

Chore Charts

I know there are a lot of households that operate smoothly with chore charts for the kids, and the chores range from the basics (breathe oxygen) to the extravagant (shingle the roof). I've seen a chart that consists of different lists for morning and evening, each broken down into subsections. Each of the four daughters has a list of simple chores, including: get dressed, brush teeth, brush hair, sort hair ribbons, throw daddy's newspaper away, and push in chairs. Although there is a noticeable absence of chores for dad (he can't throw his own newspaper away?), there is a daily chore listed for mom: clean up baby. Did someone really need to include "clean up baby" on a list?

In order to maintain some of my sanity, I actually find it easier to not maintain a chore chart and instead hand out jobs as needed. If I want one of the boys to take the garbage out, I usually just have to ask about seven times and voila! The garbage disappears! They still pretty much suck at putting a new bag into the can, though, so I just do that part myself, because I hate it when there is a ton of air trapped between the bag and the can, leaving just enough space to throw away a gum wrapper and coffee grounds. I know that you know exactly what I'm talking about.

Doug often accuses me of doing way too much for everyone, and he's absolutely right. Due to my complete absence of patience, tendency to be picky, and not-quite-a-control freak personality, I find it extremely difficult to justify taking the time to get someone's attention, politely ask them to do a chore, explain how to do the chore, not-so-politely demand that they do the chore, ignore the fact that they sighed and rolled their eyes, and then watch them do the chore half-assedly. It's much easier for me to skip this painful process, do the stupid task, and deal with a little resentment.

The one thing that I do expect on a daily basis is for someone to set the table. By "set," I mean going through the long ordeal of putting a few forks and napkins on the island. This task gets completed without my asking about three nights out of seven. I know, it's impressive. Last night, after he wandered into the kitchen and plunked down the forks, I told Charlie to go tell his sister, who was upstairs playing in her room, that dinner was ready. While standing two feet away from me, he started hollering: "Hey Zoe! Dinner's ready! Come eat!"

"Excuse me, mutation in the gene pool. I could have done that myself! I told you to go up there and tell her, not alert the entire neighborhood!" Honestly, did I need to explain to him that he should actually put one foot in front of the other, climb the stairs, open her door and, using his inside voice, inform the girl that she could come eat dinner? Apparently, yes.

I like to believe that his inability to figure out how to do this simple chore is a direct result of my coddling and failure to raise a kid with common sense, not because the chore wasn't written down on a list. It might also have something to do with the fact that I used to do the same exact thing when I was a kid.