It is typical for my daughters to come in the house after school and dump their belongings smack dab in the middle of the front entrance and then scatter with shouts of “I’m hungry” or “I need to use the washroom”. Despite the fact that I flat out refuse to pick their things up anymore, the idea of doing it immediately when they come is toxic to them. In fact, today I saw exactly what lengths my one daughter will go to, to avoid putting an item where it belongs.
First I asked her twice to hang her school and lunch bags up. Then on our way out the door for gymnastics, I noticed her sweater lying in the middle of the floor. “Come back in please and hang that up”, I say.
”Oh, I was going to wear that", she says matter of factly, and then picks it up and takes it to the van with her, where it is promptly dropped on the floor of the van. Apparently, “wearing it” is code for “moving it”. I thinking she’s hoping that I’ll be tripped up by this shell game. Ok, I think I’ll play along.
When we get to gymnastics, I ask, “I thought you were going to wear that sweater”.
“Ummm, mom it’s way too hot in there” with a look that says “Why would you ask such a stupid question?” When we get home, she flies out of the car leaving the sweater behind. I wait until we get inside to remind her that she has to go get it and hang it up. This elicits large, over-emphasized sighs. Does she now walk in and hang the sweater up? Has she finally had enough hassle over this stupid thing to just get it done? Nope, she walks in and hangs it on the chair in the dining room.
Good grief!! What is this child’s issue with hanging clothes up? Is she allergic? Does she break out into hives? Is it physically painful for her? Or is it more sinister than that? Does she see the wrinkles she’s giving me? Does she enjoy seeing my right eye twitch? Is she planning slow-death-by-aggravation for me?
“Morgan. Get. Back. Here.” I say through clenched teeth. “Please hang this sweater up before I lose my temper.”
“Sheesh mom, what’s the big deal?”
The vein at my temple begins to pulse. I feel a tirade coming on. An indignant explosion of “Do you know what I do around here?” followed closely by “Do you know there are little girls who would love to have a sweater like that and a place to hang it up?!” but I refrain. Very calmly, with just a hint of “mommy dearest” thrown in, I tell her that if it’s not hung up I will take it to the Salvation Army tomorrow. The sweater finally, FINALLY, gets hung up.
Hours later, I go into her room to tuck her in. I brush her hair back and kiss her softly and think what a great kid I have. I then go to close her closet door and notice the sweater in a crumpled heap on the floor, where it had fallen off the hanger. Maybe it’s not my daughter out to get me after all but the sweater.
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