Why do my children react like I’ve asked them to build an addition on to the home when I’ve only asked them to unload the dishwasher? via Like Pulling Teeth: Getting My Sons to Do Chores – Hot Mess Memoir
Ladies, you’re amazing and people don’t tell you that enough! The stuff we have to do EVERY SINGLE DAY is crazy! via Mothers are Mutha’ F***** Amazing- Happy Mother’s Day! – Hot Mess Memoir
I don’t think I ask for a lot from my kids. But when I ask for chores to be done, you’d think I’d asked for an addition to be built onto the home! Read about the struggle via Chores – Hot Mess Memoir
In today’s podcast, we are ranting about laundry! Folding it, putting it away, even dealing with foling a fitted sheet. Come along on this “journey” via Laundry- Podcast 6 – Hot Mess Memoir
Ok, I want to hear from people with children and people who remember being children or find they are just an adult child. I need some advice on setting up chores for my sons.
Almost daily I ask the boys to unload the dishwasher. You would think I asked them to unload the dishwashers of a cruise ship after the formal dinner. What the hell? In my mind I’m thinking, ‘listen up Thing 1 and Thing 2, this is like the sole job I give you. We have a man maid for cryin’ out loud coming every other week. So God forbid if you help me with the dishes.
And would you like to see the extra time they take for putting away dishes, specifically the Tupperware cabinet?
I love how the blue water bottle is balancing “just so” on the Pyrex measuring cup.
I think part of the reason why I’m so bad with money is because I never had an allowance to manage. My mother gave me the option of a fixed weekly income or a “do your chores, ask for it when you want it and a good portion of the time, I’ll say yes.”
My father tried the allowance thing till I became a smart ass at the age of 11.
“Your gonna get $2 whole dollars every week as an allowance.” My Father declared.
“Oh wow, your too generous dad. Perhaps I could take those $2 dollars and buy 1 schrunchie a week at Rite Aide. Or I could save up for a banana clip. The possibilities are endless with this sort of wealth.”
He gave me the evil eye, tucked it back into his money clip and declared there would be no allowance. In fact, we would now be working for free.
‘Yeah, we’ll see about that,’ I said under my breath on my way to ask my mom to take me to the mall.
So here I am now with 2 completely ungrateful children who find the dishwasher a challenge and always “forget” that I asked them to clean something.
I need suggestions people! I found this great website: My Job Chart and we used it until the boys got their Nooks and were like “screw you mom, we got what we came for and we are outtie.”
So I’m thinking like $5 a week for the oldest (10) and $2 for the youngest (7). Oh my God, I just said a $2 allowance. I’ve turned into my father. No, I’m worse then my father. I got $2 in the 80’s. With inflation, $2 is now what? $10?
Here are the basic chores I would love to see them do:
- brush teeth (trust me they struggle with this)
- make bed
- unload dishwasher
- feed Chi-chi
- fold 1 load of laundry a week
- sweep the floor
Not enough chores? I’m open for suggestions. What did you guys do? God, I want to be the kid again and not worry about this stuff.
He has decided to wash me! Rejoice! As you can see, I am being qued up to be washed. He brought me down and sat me next to the laundry room. Progress. After all of his family members declined an offering of $20 to wash, fold and put me away, he was left with the stark realization that he actually had to do his laundry.
If you’ve missed the first blog post about this, you can check it out here:Only At My Job
Since this beast decided to come back, I think we are gonna need a name. I want a name that is completely random and has absolutely no connection with someone that would go huntin’.
I had specifically asked him to take the trash out yesterday; his sole job. He texts me on my way home last night that they didn’t take it out, confident the holiday pushed it back a day. 15 minutes later, I hear the trash truck missing our home and moving on to the next. I was enraged slamming down my son’s backpacks down, having a Mommy Dearest moment. I slipped on my shoes, ran (slid) outside to catch up with the truck. Through careful negotiations (cleavage) I convinced him to come back around and get my trash.
If you haven’t read my post on my man maid, you can check it out here: I Have a Man Maid. Basically I have a certifiable individual come to my house bi-weekly and clean it.
Just as I was rolling my trash can back to the garage, I did a double take to notice Jack getting out of his car and walking up the drive. It happened in that slow motion kind of way and in my head was a slow motion, deep ‘NNNNOOOOOOOO’ occurring.
Why was he here at 8:05 am? This isn’t how this works. He is to clean my friend’s house first then come to my house; giving me ample time to miss him.
“Oh, your here early,” I said in my most I can’t stand you voice.
“Yeah, Sarah’s sick,” he said. Sarah is my friend who owns the house he was supposed to clean first.
“Oh no!” I said in a concerned tone. That bitch.
“So how have you been?” he asked.
“Oh good, working all the time.”
Despite not asking how he has been, it was clear that his question to me was clearly just a gateway for him to talk about himself and family.
“We’ve been stressed at our house,” he says, dramatically turning around like they do in a soap operas.
Despite my better judgement and not being an ass hole, I was forced to be sucked into this train wreck.
“Oh you know, the oldest boy just quit the FBI.”
“Oh rea…” He cut me off.
“Gonna go work for the NSA. That’s the group that listens to your phone calls. His job at the CIA was catching terrorist. He just called me and said dad, I can’t do it anymore. All the things they do.”
This was another attempt to get me to bite and I stood my ground.
Jack’s story telling capabilities are on par with a 90 year old narcissistic who didn’t make it through the 1st grade. Thanks to Jack, I was now an additional 5 to 10 minutes late for work.
As I waited in the drive thru at Starbucks, I text the following to my friend:
A few minutes ago, Sarah’s husband and son came over to play soccer with the boys in the basement.
“Please tell me Sarah didn’t take my text seriously about being angry that she was sick?”
“What? No, she hasn’t said anything about a text. Besides, she wasn’t sick. It was her day off and she didn’t want to be in the house when Jack was there.”
I refuse to do my husband’s laundry. He doesn’t do the sheets or the towels or the boys’ clothes. The least he can do (considering I work more hours than him) is his own laundry. I fee like the hamper has taken on a life of it’s own and I would like to log it. So here it goes:
HAMPER LOG-DAY 1
It’s been 2 weeks since my insides have been washed, dried and folded. I grow increasingly full to the point of overflow. I don’t even recognize myself anymore. See the bullet in front of me? That was me trying to end my life until I realized it was a Nerf bullet. Sigh. At one point I was hopeful my owner was going to wash me. I heard him downstairs in the laundry room opening the door, pondering the idea for a moment but decided against it. Let’s hope for better days.