Abaondoned undies, exhausting forks

It’s occurred to me lately that we need to rethink the division of labour in our household. Because as the kids are growing up, life is getting seriously busy – and I’m slowly turning into a grumpy old cow.

Long gone are those toddler years when staying in jamies until noon was de rigueur, and ordering drive through coffee in your ugg boots was an acceptable days outing.

early days

These days there are alarms going bleep-bleep and befuddled children to boss about.  There are sustaining breakfasts and inspiring lunches to be negotiated. There are bags to pack, uniforms to locate, permission slips to be signed and teeth to be brushed. Those teeth need to be brushed Every. Single. Morning.   Top if off with a school bell to meet, and it gets me almost every time – I’m doing that shouty thing before the day has even properly started.

And the days when I try to complete the whole saga and then continue on my way to work?  Multiply the degree of difficulty by approximately 1.75, if you expect to a) remember your lunch and b) not look like you’ve been dragged through a bush backwards.  Some women do it every day of the week – and it baffles me how.

But then I read a few of those smug, ‘it’s really not so difficult if you’re organised’ type blog posts and came across this gem:

I have 3 young boys to get to school in the morning and have no trouble . We have a timetable. 6.30 – 7am – breakfast and shower. 7 – 7.30 – Chores, which are broken into 3 groups and they do each morning. They rotate at the end of the week. 7.30 – 8 – relax, 8am – depart for school. Lunches are made on Sunday night and packed in the fridge/freezer for the whole week with their name on them. Have been doing this since the youngest was 4 yrs old and have no problems at all.Pocket money of $5/wk is paid every Sunday. My boys are healthy, responsible, organised, good at school and sports and very happy..

Is she for real?  Do people really get their jollies packing a week’s worth of lunches every Sunday night, before unwinding with a well-overdue sock drawer inventory and a cup of camomile tea?  Obviously Ms Smarty Pants here doesn’t need to ask her children to do something at least three times before it will even appear on their radar – giving her plenty of time for her pelvic floor exercises while cooking day 13 of her 20-day rotating menu cycle.

Anyhow… I recently decided to implement a system of weekly chores and pocket money – because it dawned on me that if I don’t, I may well miss the bus, and end up with children who still don’t know how to use a washing machine at age 35.

The bedroom formed the ‘core focus’ of my new system.  From now on it was up to them to ensure it was tidy every morning, or they could kiss goodbye to their sweet $2 on Sunday.  In addition, he would take charge of emptying the dishwasher cutlery basket, she would help sort the clean washing, and they would both take turns feeding the dog.  I wrote it up, had it laminated and hoped for the best.

high hopes

One week down the track, we hit a snag.  My daughter had ‘run out’ of underwear, and so I went in to investigate and found no less than 5 pairs of underpants (balled up within various garments) in the bottom of the closet.  I delved deeper, and discovered several pairs of pyjamas covered in vegemite smears or crusted-on porridge, and shoved in various PATENTLY NON-PYJAMA draws throughout the room.

Arlo started out brilliantly with the cutlery task (completed with more precision than my husband, who favours the ‘turn upside and tip’ approach).   But predictably his enthusiasm faded, to the point where a direct transcript from his most recent unpack goes something like this:

Oh… this is soooo booorrrring (drop one fork into draw)…  It’s going…. to…. take…….. all………day… (drop one spoon into drawer) …. It’s….. tooo…. hard…. and… booooorrrrrring….. {enormous sigh}

Observing this spectacle, I fought against every fibre of my being, which wanted to take him and shout: JUST LET ME DO IT YOU LAZY GOOD-FOR-NOTHING OVER-PRIVILEGED UPSTART in an alarmingly Alf Stewart fashion.

Surely I should just save myself the angst and do it myself, properly, with no need for the drill-sergeant routine?  But that would be quitting.  So we’re pressing on.

I’ll let you know if the point ever comes when the kids ‘helping’ actually saves me time, and doesn’t make me want to stick a fork in my leg.  But until then, I’m keeping a good stock of Bombay Sapphire at the ready.

He got the cutlery blues

 

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