It’s not that I don’t know that someone else should pick up the dog poop around here. It’s not that I don’t know that responsibility builds character.
I know boys should fold clothes.
I know boys should sort laundry.
I know boys should make their beds in the morning.
I know boys should take their dishes to the sink, learn to load the dishwasher, perhaps even learn to unload it, if our cupboards weren’t so tall that even I can’t reach the top shelf when I stand on the stool.
I know that the second half of the downstairs room – which I haven’t yet named because it seems like it should be the family room and yet the fireplace seems like it’s in the family room and I don’t want to call the downstairs the playroom because I want the football team to go down their someday to play pool and ping pong and watch approved movies, and I don’t want my son to have to invite them to the “playroom” – is filled with boxes. Half-empty boxes, at that.
I know they could at least be – what’s that word? – Consolidated. I know it. I know there are legos on the window sill in the laundry room. I know the boys’ hair is too long, their feet are dirty, and their toenails need trimmed. I know that one’s shorts are dirty and this one chewed a hole through the collar of his tee shirt.
Just please don’t think I don’t know. I do know.
But if I acknowledge them, then I have to do something about it. I have to train the boys instead of doing it myself, and if they are trained to do it then I must follow through with consequences when they don’t keep their responsibilities.
Believe me, it’s easier to just let myself off the hook than to imagine I’m raising helpless husbands and careless leaders.
Or, maybe I do want you to think I don’t know. Maybe just imagine I’m oblivious, that I just don’t know the details of this chaos.
I know. Believe me. I know.