I have an amazing family. Everyday, I count my blessings. We have our health, a roof over our heads, people in our lives whom we love and adore and many, many creature comforts. My husband is brilliant, funny as hell and a really good sport (after all, I skewer him in this space often.) We share similar views of the world and love and respect one another.
Each person in my family has their own skills and positive attributes, in various areas. In fact, the areas are so various that I am often in awe of our differences. And by awe, I mean, how are we all related? And more astounding, how do we all live together and not kill one another?
A perfect example of this would be the way we plan. Or in my husband and daughter’s case, the way they do NOT plan. At all. Ever. At least, not when it matters.
My daughter can plan her birthday party, down to the color of the flowers she would like me to procure for her centerpieces, 11-and-a-half months in advance. But ask her to pack a water bottle for dance class, a class she attends five days a week, and she completely forgets. I’ve even filled the bottle and handed it to her, while reminding her that it is in her hand. She puts it down to pull on her shoes and promptly walks out the door, leaving the water behind. I am then met with a pitiful frowny face when she gets her break, “Mommy, do you have my water bottle? I’m so thirsty.”
Of course I have the damn water bottle. Because we do this five times a week. And any sane person would remember that they drink water every time. And yet, at least three times a week, I am grabbing a water bottle off the table on my way out the door.
Never mind that she has a very pretty and functional dance bag. There are pouches for water, different compartments for shoes and clothing and various small pockets for hair stuff and what not. The natural state of this bag is a disaster. The bottom shoe area is only half zipped and various ballet slippers and socks are threatening to escape. The top is completely open with leg warmers hanging out and empty granola bar wrappers shedding crumbs on all the contents. It’s insane. And it gives me a twitch. It’s like I birthed Pig Pen, in a tutu.
I regularly find myself micromanaging this child’s life. Do you have your water? Where is your dance bag? Did you pack a hair brush so you can make your bun? I feel like a chimpanzee mother, picking bugs from her child’s head because they don’t care enough to do it themselves.
And then there’s the school bag. Good Lord, that will be the death of me. I pick my kids up from school each afternoon. After too many homework sessions devolved into crying fits because some item or another had been forgotten, I have taken to asking her, while making and maintaining eye contact, “Do you have your {insert subject here} homework?” And then we go through each subject, one by one. I also ask for the lunchbag, jackets, sweaters, sweatshirts and any other clothing or accessory that isn’t hanging off her arm or head, or out of her wide-open backpack.
The receptionist at the school even helps me, “Didn’t you have violin today?” And back up the stairs for the rented instrument of torture we go. Of course, this is the one thing I’m totally okay with her leaving behind, so maybe that’s not so helpful.
I often shake my head at her disorganized nature and wonder how she is my child. I mean, I have a written itinerary of the last 10 years of Thanksgiving menus, complete with daily chores for the three days preceding, serving dish assignments and attached recipes. I have an alphabetized CD collection. I fill accordion folders every year with every receipt and important paper I have, labeled and filed by month. How is she my spawn?
And then I remember her father and it all makes sense. When he takes her to dance, she not only goes without her water bottle, unless by some grace of God she gets it herself, but she usually goes without her dance slippers as well. I finally bought an extra pair to keep in the console of his car. Mind you, it’s not like he only takes her once in awhile, to help me out. Every Saturday, this is his job. His one job. Get her to dance. Preferably with water AND shoes. Then bring her back home. Again, with the water and the shoes. And yet, so often this does not happen.
In the last month, I’ve been up to the school at least once a week with something that has been left behind. Usually, it’s homework and though I swear I’m not doing it any more, that she will just have to deal with the consequences, I hate thinking of her sitting in during recess when they already spend so many hours at their desks. It’s a punishment that I abhor, but that is perfectly legal and regularly doled out.
This week, when I found her reading homework under the kitchen table right after she got on the bus, I decided to get over myself. I reiterated my mantra, “I am so very blessed. There is so much good in my life. I am thankful everyday.” Then I carefully packed the worksheet in the folder labeled ‘forgotten homework’ and headed out.
There is no such thing as perfection. We are all flawed. We are all works in progress. My daughter is amazing. She is so good as so many things. But it’s possible, even probable, that she will never be organized. One look at my other half, whose cell phone is missing somewhere in the house so often that I would give my left pinky if Siri could just answer when I yell her name, and it’s painfully clear that somethings cannot be taught. I’ve been trying for 20 years.
The disorganized bunch in my life even have the nerve to scoff at my charts, planners and organizers. If they only knew how much better life would be if they pulled themselves together. Even just a little. My wee one has made it painful for me to look in the backseat of my car. She has it to herself on most days and she treats it like a homeless person’s shopping cart. I think she could survive back there for like a month. And so could any number of rodents. I’m surprised nothing has started growing. Or moving on its own.
I’ve thought about bringing it to a car wash, but first I’d have to clear out the rubble. Instead, I bring the dogs out and let them scour the seats and floors. Pit bulls are an amazingly effective food removal system. But when the stain is set or there is an unidentifiable sticky substance that even the dogs won’t touch, I have to use an upholstery cleaner.
The easiest and most effective all around cleaner can also be used to clean your furniture and vehicle upholstery.
Fabric Upholstery Cleaner
You will need:
1/2 cup of white vinegar
1/2 cup of warm water
1/2 tablespoon of dish liquid soap
Directions:
Mix all the ingredients in a spray bottle. Spray the mixture onto the soiled fabric and scrub the area in a circular motion. Repeat until the area is clean. Clean the cloth with warm water and use it to remove the excess soap from the fabric. Blot the cleaned area with a dry cloth. Let it dry completely.
Or make the offending child hold a blow dryer on the spot until you feel it has reached an acceptable level of dryness. Perhaps next time, she’ll keep the lollipop in her mouth.
