One of my most challenging jobs as a mother to sons is teaching them how to clean.
Sometimes I often wonder if it is a lesson in futility.
First of all, each one of them has a serious Peter Pan complex. All play and no work.
My house clearly reveals this concept.
I have designated them each a kitchen chore. One has to sweep the floor, another has to empty the dishwasher, another has to clear off the table, and the last has to fill the dishwasher.
They do their jobs, but that's it.
Therefore, the table still has crumbs, the kitchen counters are covered in empty containers and leftover food, and pots and pans are waiting to be scrubbed.
Makes me think I need to have more children just to get the job done. But since my body protests this idea profusely, I must clean up after my children clean up.
Even other rooms in the house need my particular attention after the boys have "cleaned up".
They will say that they are done and since I take this as a grain of salt, I must inspect the area. Of course, they have no idea that the carpet needs to be vacuumed and Lord forbid they have to dust.
Dust? What do ya mean, dust?
And since they treat the floor like a trash can, there is always a fine layer of crumbs and pieces of trash littered all over.
You would think they were blind.
Just the other day, I found cheese in the couch.
You might say, "Just forbid them from eating in the living room."
I might say, "And you think I haven't?"
You might say, "Then, you must follow through on that."
I might say, "Then I'd be spanking butts all day every day not to mention they are sneaky, little fellows."
Thus, the cheese hiding in the couch.
Since I am not omniscient and stringing them up by the ankles won't work either, I have decided they are going to clean up their own crap.
This is kind of like potty training.
They will be learning how to clean for the rest of their lives.
Until someday they make the excuse to their wives and talk about how hard they work all day to bring home the bacon and they have made their contribution to the family blah, blah, blah.
Whatever.
Sometimes I often wonder if it is a lesson in futility.
First of all, each one of them has a serious Peter Pan complex. All play and no work.
My house clearly reveals this concept.
I have designated them each a kitchen chore. One has to sweep the floor, another has to empty the dishwasher, another has to clear off the table, and the last has to fill the dishwasher.
They do their jobs, but that's it.
Therefore, the table still has crumbs, the kitchen counters are covered in empty containers and leftover food, and pots and pans are waiting to be scrubbed.
Makes me think I need to have more children just to get the job done. But since my body protests this idea profusely, I must clean up after my children clean up.
Even other rooms in the house need my particular attention after the boys have "cleaned up".
They will say that they are done and since I take this as a grain of salt, I must inspect the area. Of course, they have no idea that the carpet needs to be vacuumed and Lord forbid they have to dust.
Dust? What do ya mean, dust?
And since they treat the floor like a trash can, there is always a fine layer of crumbs and pieces of trash littered all over.
You would think they were blind.
Just the other day, I found cheese in the couch.
You might say, "Just forbid them from eating in the living room."
I might say, "And you think I haven't?"
You might say, "Then, you must follow through on that."
I might say, "Then I'd be spanking butts all day every day not to mention they are sneaky, little fellows."
Thus, the cheese hiding in the couch.
Since I am not omniscient and stringing them up by the ankles won't work either, I have decided they are going to clean up their own crap.
This is kind of like potty training.
They will be learning how to clean for the rest of their lives.
Until someday they make the excuse to their wives and talk about how hard they work all day to bring home the bacon and they have made their contribution to the family blah, blah, blah.
Whatever.
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