There are some serious problems simmering in my household. An explosion of epic proportions is due any moment. I don't even know where to hide, for the inevitable meltdown of my psyche and home.
First issue: After having posted an urgent plea on FaceBook, not one of my friends came to my rescue. My simple request? I was in desperate need of a legitimate excuse to not have to clean my bathroom. Oh, sure, everyone agreed with me on the horrid chore that it is. But no one offered a way to squirm out of it.
Some one out there could have broken into my car, started our house on fire, found a way to start a tsunami and made us have to evacuate, left a piglet crying on my doorstep in need of a good rub down. Nothing. It's not like they have to clean their own bathrooms, or something. They probably all have a cleaning service to do all household chores for them. Because I know that I am the only person in the U.S. to have to scrub their own toilet.
Second issue: My teenage son has decided to quit honoring his mother. No respect from that off-spring that caused me to scream at his birthing. All I asked was that he help me make my bed. Because second to scouring foot grime off of the bathtub, I truly loathe putting on sheets, blankets and bedspread. Don't even get me started about pillowcases.
I tried every thing I could think of to gain his assistance. From guilt trips about the jacket I bought him today and all the painful effort it took to earn the money for it, to over blown compliments about how extraordinarily gifted he is at putting together bedding. Nothing worked. He has called my bluff and now refuses to tuck in the fitted sheet, or lay the blankets in place.
Finally, I threatened to never make dinner for him ever again. And can you believe this? He thinks I'm joshing. Just wait until tomorrow night when I feed his share of the tofu meatloaf to our dogs. Hah. He'll not be laughing then.
He actually said that I was old enough to make it myself! Where is the love here, people?
The only compensation for us poor, poor mothers, is that half glass of Cabernet waiting for me on the kitchen counter.
And the warm, clean, freshly made bed to clamber into and read a John Updike novel. And, well, I guess the sudsy bath I can take tonight while drinking the half glass of Cabernet.
So, I suppose my life is not a catastrophic mess.
But I am still feeding his tofu meatloaf to the dogs. Or making him eat it. Whichever he protests the most about, that shall be his non-bed-making consequence.
I am the hardcore, mean mother.
Cleaned Out, Suffering Mother