My children are very lazy. I blame myself. In my desire to live in a manner different from which I lived in as a child, I want everything to look nice. Neat. Problems don’t exist in tidy houses. Of course I realize this is usually the opposite, but it makes me feel in control. As I am outnumbered, I really need to feel in control of our chaos. I like things done right, which means my way, so I have a problem delegating my household chores to those I live with, who are shorter than me.
As my writing commitments become greater (yay!) this has become a problem. A good problem, but a problem. I simply have less time. I need help. I expect certain little people to start doing their part: clear the table, pick up their clothes, put away their toys and make their beds. This has been met with great resistance. I’ve been shocked by the reactions of my four lazy, entitled little people. Aside from the irritation I feel for their unwillingness to do what I say to help me, I fear that I’m going to be sending them out into the world lacking some very valuable skills. So I soldier (nag) on.
I told them that they had to clean out the car, because quite frankly, the inside of the car is disgusting. I’d like to emphasize that they and all their stuff transform our vehicle into something I really can’t let people see (or smell). Imagine my surprise when I walked outside to check on them and saw this:
Maybe there’s hope for them after all. That, or they just like to play with the hose!