Fold the damned blankets, man….

Ya know what seems so easy to me?

Not getting yelled at… that seems easy to me.

Let’s say a person comes home every evening and bitches about the mess (ok – this will get confusing unless I assign names; just for the sake of clarity we’ll say the bitch is me….). So let’s say *I* come home every evening, survey the room and start spouting off…

And — solely for the sake of clarity — let’s say the bitchees are my children… just to keep it straight, ya know?

“Are you kids comfy there on the couch? wrapped up in blankets. watching stupid, mind-numbing shows. while blankets are lying unfolded everywhere.  bookbags strewn about.  how many shoes can be worn in a day? you know what flotsam means? it means I’m alive and well in our house…”

Day. After day. After day.

I get home at 7:04 every evening.  You’d think these kids would hop up at 6:45 and just straighten up a little if only to avoid the inevitable tirade; hell, I wouldn’t even give a hang if they mumbled under their respective breaths about me… it’s a trade off.

This evening, as with every other before it, I walked in to the 3 of them curled up on the couch, losing IQ points.  I  started my rant about the general disarray of the room, carried on for a 2 minute, breathless, streak and rounded it out with, “Calvin… is your sweatshirt serving any real purpose here, draped over 2 sections of couch?”

He had already jumped to action (he abhors strife of any kind). With zero mal-intent and the innocence of a truly good hearted kid Cal said, “Here ya go momma, I  grabbed your sweatshirt from this morning… it was on the floor over there.”

little fucker….