The Messin' Is Depressin'
Sun., December 2, 05:37 PM
Imagine it, a comfortable, cool morning on a weekend. I was sleeping on the living room recliner, where I can lie comfortably on my back. With the radio playing softly, I snuggled into my quilt, kind of drifting in and out as I savored the luxury of not having to get up. More awake than asleep, I realized that the front door had opened and a tall, handsome young man had entered. Stop snickering at the old lady! My dear son had driven 140 miles in order to mow his mother's lawn.
Actually, I wrote that a couple of months ago. But he found time for us again this weekend, and I certainly was grateful.
I was already up and moving when Son appeared this Saturday. Besides, he was working indoors. He does his best to take some of the strain off my shoulders, even if he just spends some time chatting with Husband. But his goal this time was to help me overcome what Bev calls the Flat Surface Syndrome. My personal temporary solution is to clear a surface by putting everything into a box, which I will then go through at my leisure. But Son pointed out that those boxes (yes, they were plural by now) looked suspiciously similar to the way they had been last time he checked. So he got started on my kitchen. He washed dishes — and found more dishes to wash. And he put them all away. He reorganized cabinets, including the one with the blind section — they should have installed a corner one there — and then put away everything I had left on the counter because I couldn't find space in the cupboard. He cleaned out drawers and asked — so important that he ask first — can I throw these away? There were plenty of gadgets to discard, things I had bought years ago, only to buy something better later on.
While he was clearing and organizing, I tackled the boxes. I managed to throw out stuff — it had been important at the time, I'm telling you — and got from three boxes to one. Then I collapsed the boxes for cardboard recycling.
When he comes again, we will try the living room. I don't know; it is the most convenient place to keep oxygen tanks and nebulizer supplies. Nevertheless, I suspect he will make a dent in the mess.
It is absolutely fascinating to watch how a compulsive personality manifests itself. Both Husband and I have compulsive traits; Son is compulsively neat. The difference is that, for the first eighteen years of his life, Son actually had his own space, his own room. By comparison, I can count about four months of my life when I didn't have to share my space with someone.
It is also interesting to note that my son is the best housekeeper of the three children. I laugh at myself, when I remember that it took my father so long to recognize that his daughters were more “mechanically minded” than his son. I was just as annoyed that my son was what I somewhat expected my daughters to be.
Parents can be remarkably short-sighted sometimes. However, I didn't ever tell my kids they should be something different. I gave them lots of examples, and they took their choices. I shall have to describe those parental compulsions sometime. If Son ever saw Husband 's method of washing dishes, he would, as they say in Yiddish, plotz.
Here's a little something I picked up via my buddy cosmicrayola. This rating is, after all, what I aim for.
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