This is the summer when I started to crack the whip with my kids. Or maybe it’s the summer I decided I was done with being the only cook and scullery maid in the household.
For the first time, I’ve insisted my kids help clean up the house. I make them do dishes and sweep and I force them to (gasp) put away their clothes and neaten up the living room.
“When are we going to be done?” they wailed this morning while I was in the middle of a good whip cracking. “When we’re done,” I snapped. (I’m pretty sure I was channeling my own mother when I said this).
It’s late afternoon now and they did not, in fact work all day. And when they did work they were um – slow. That’s the nicest way to put it. My older son put a stool in the bathroom so he could sit while he sprayed the counter. My younger son periodically lay down on the couch.
But I did teach R. how to sweep with two hands and I succeeded in getting my younger one to take out the garbage. They learned how to fold blankets and they hung their shirts on hangers. It was very satisfying for me. Not so much for them.
Sadly, their pain is the very thing that cures what ails me in my house. I would be singing the blues all summer if I allowed them to turn the house into a hovel. My head would explode if I cleaned up while they lounged watching TV. I would become a witch or something that sounds like a witch.
In my quest for help, I have had to endure long lawyerly arguments from my older son about why he shouldn’t clean his room. I have had to threaten to take away dessert, computers, and television. I have set timers. I have yelled and cajoled.
My younger son scored a point or two when he pointed out (rightly) that my room was a mess and I just close the door and don’t let anyone in it. Touché, young man. But I replied (truthfully) that I am also working on my own room so it wouldn’t be so messy and that I don’t have play dates in my room. (Ahem!)
Always in the back of my mind, iare those future wives or girlfriends who either love me or hate me. They’re either married to the guys who sit on the couch in their underwear flicking through the channels with the remote and scraching their bellies or they’re married to the guy who picks up the living room and knows how to sweep. Maybe they won’t thank me if my sons sweep but at least they won’t curse me out.
But more importantly, my kids need to know that running a house is hard work. When they wail that they hate housework, I always reply (or snarl depending on my mood), “So do I.” And in the next breath, I say, “Now, get back to work.”
Maybe they think I’m the queen of mean but at least I’m avoiding becoming the sovereign of insanity. At least not for now.
Image from online.wsj.com
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