October 18, 2011

Sole responsibility

Do you ever have those moments when you almost think that prison would be better than the life you are leading?  If someone were to lock me away, by myself, with nothing to dust, vacuum, wash, pick up or organize, for anyone other than myself, I think I would jump for joy.

Of course, I am not thinking very far into it.  I would miss my kids.  I would certainly miss my freedom.  But, I am sick to death of this domestic hell I am in.  Anytime we have any major cleaning or purging project, I get extremely bent out of shape, because Mr Harper simply can't be of much help.

It seems that I am the only one that can look at a pile of clothes, a stack of books, a container of toys, and know which ones are crap, which ones actually belong to someone else, what fits, what doesn't and what has great sentimental value.

Mr H tries to help, and that makes it worse.  He shuffles stuff around.  He takes stuff that I have sorted and moves it.  He throws away things that should be saved.  He saves things that should be thrown away.

Considering that The Princess clearly qualifies to be on an episode of 'Hoarders', I should be less concerned, but tucked among the detritus are things that mean something to her or others.  Barbie clothes from my childhood.  A scrapbook made for her by her best friend that moved away (even though it looks like scrap construction paper to the untrained eye).  The notebooks she fills with her drawings and thoughts.

When I was 6-year's old, my mom had a garage sale.  I had been off at a friend's house playing for most of the day.  I distinctly remember walking towards home, down the sidewalk, and seeing a man loading my rocking horse into the back of a truck.  I came unhinged.  My mom had to come grab me as I yelled at the man and tried to pull my horse off the tailgate.  It made no difference to me that it had been two or three years since I was of a size to ride the damn thing.  I loved that rocking horse.  I loved its huge (deadly) squeaking springs and its frozen plastic horsey smile.  I loved the red enameled metal frame.  I have never forgotten the betrayal I felt that day, when my mom sold my horse to some stranger.  I mention it to my mom at least twice a year.  I don't want any of my kids to go through that, hence the iron fist of control I keep over Mr H cleaning out the kids' rooms.

Until he learns that you have to sneak stuff to the trash, or up into the attic until garage sale day, he needs to stay out of things and distract the kiddos as needed.  Back to the grind...

1 comment:

CenTexTim said...

If you want something done right do it yourself ... and count your blessings. At least Mr. H is trying to help, instead of out drinking and chasing women. :-)