Commentary by Danielle Wilson
Can I just complain about my children for one minute? And before anyone shoots off a nasty-gram, let me preface this by stating that I actually do love my kids. There. Happy?
‘Cause I’m not. Why is it that every day I return home from a long day of work, I am met with a countertop filled with crusty dishes and fruit flies, backpacks and stinky socks strewn on the table and floor, and at least one “What’s for dinner?” greeting? Several times a week I also hear “When are you going to the grocery?” and, if I’m really lucky, “Libby pooped on the carpet.”
Now I’m not the type of person who thinks, “Yay! My family needs me!” No, my usual reaction cannot be printed here. But honestly! How hard would it be for them to pick up after themselves? They’re all capable of loading a dishwasher and scraping up canine crap. Have I just spent 18 years raising lazy, inconsiderate brats?
Granted, two of my kids are rarely home. Tiny Dancer typically has an hour in between school and rehearsals, and Guard Girl basically lives on the band field. Still, I can’t understand why my children neglect basic sanitation protocol. They all have assigned chores. They all know how crazy a messy house makes me. Why do they continually prioritize Instagram and Xbox over their about-to-lose-it mother? Why doesn’t anyone love me?
I suppose that’s my problem. I equate a Cloroxed toilet with love. To me, the greatest gift would be to walk in on a Wednesday afternoon and see three of my precious little angels scrubbing the floors Annie-style while the fourth self-initiates a Meijer run for milk and Fruit Loops. But alas, they are still just teenagers, more interested in checking text messages than hanging up their coats. And if my husband rarely manages to rinse his plate, am I really surprised that my 15-year-olds don’t?
Thanks for listening. I feel much better having vented. And don’t forget, there is love here, at least most of the time, so no need for hate mail. Peace out.