“But, mom!” the living-back-at-home daughter protested. “You
have to TELL me these things.”
These things include, but are not limited to, extracting
long strands of brown wavy hair from the bathroom drain. Curbing her
ten-dollar-a-day grapes habit, or at the very least, replacing said fruit. Completing
a cycle of laundry before the mother comes along with the next three loads and
angrily folds what has been left in the dryer, because, contrary to popular
belief, she’s not mean enough to throw it in a crumpled heap on the daughter’s
bedroom floor. Which is exactly where it came from.
As the revolving door on Grove Street opens and closes to my adult offspring, I find myself marveling at how little they know about basic household concepts. Or, in other words, how much I failed to teach them. I take most of the blame. Most. Not all. Because, I always had a valid excuse. When they were growing up and I was schlepping them from field to field, house to house, school to school, I just didn’t
have the time. It was so much more efficient to do it myself than to redo what they tried
to do.
If I had it to do over, I would teach my children that
sheets should be changed more than once a year. That toothpaste droolings in
the sink are not attractive. And that toilets don’t get cleaned by themselves.
I would show them how to lower the shades at night and how
to open them in the morning. Where the outside trashcan is. And how to take the
recycling bins to the curb on alternate Tuesdays.
I’d explain why it’s not a good idea to leave a plastic bag
on top of the toaster oven when it’s in use. Why the dishwasher doesn’t remove
burnt-on food byproducts. And why baked potatoes blow up in the microwave if
not pierced with a fork.
I would teach my children to hand wash the ice cream scooper
that says NOT DISHWASHER SAFE and not put the Henckles knives in the
dishwasher. Or the cash iron skillets. Or the plastic water bottles on the bottom
rack.
I’d show them how to water the plants on the porch. How to empty
the overflowing mailbox that they pass every time they come in the door. How to plunge a toilet. How to tell when cold cuts have gone rancid. And how
to use a coaster.
I’d explain the reasoning behind bringing deck chair cushions
in before it rains. Cutting the grass before the neighbors ask us to. Emptying
the (I didn’t even know we had one) dehumidifier before it overflows. Replenishing
the milk before it’s all gone.
I would teach my children how to use a hanger. How to
replace the toilet paper. How to finish a water bottle. And how to vacuum dog hair.
I’d show them where the cleaning supplies are kept. Where the
car keys are hung. And where the closest Ben & Jerry’s is. Just in case
they wanted to pick up some Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream for someone they love.
I’d explain the importance of keeping the inside shower
curtain in and keeping the outside curtain out. That there’s a direct correlation
between round-the-clock air conditioning and over-the-top electric bills. That paid-for
car insurance, and cell phones, are not God-given rights.
I would teach my children that texting to say “I’m alive”
with aforementioned paid-for-by-parent cell phone (because a family plan is so
much cheaper) is kind. That saying “Thanks for all you do, Mumsie,” is sweet.
That answering a direct question with a blank stare is not.
If I had it to do over, I’d do it all much differently. I’d
be stricter. I’d be stronger. I’d do what my friend Barbara tells me to do
every time she sees me. I'd charge rent. From middle school on.
When I muddle and muse over these many misdoings, misgivings
and misparentings, I can’t help but wonder how the great mothers of the world
do it. My soon-to-be 93 year-old mama comes immediately to mind.
And that’s when I laugh.
Because, not all that long ago, she could have written this very same story about my sisters and me.