I spent many a sleepless night this summer obsessing about the morning routine of the impending school year. Who would I take where, and when? And with my oldest in school there’s no one home to watch the toddler, so she gets drug along for the ride (where I grew up, they say “drug” instead of “dragged”). But it hasn’t been so bad. It’s taking me about an hour to get everyone packed up; I first chauffeur my oldest daughter to high school, then ferry the elementary girls to their destination.
Were it not for a treacherous parking lot (I can’t just drop them off– we have to park and then walk the gauntlet) and obnoxious drivers, it would almost be enjoyable. And then I’m back home with just the toddler, where I can actually be productive instead of having my skirt tugged at every three minutes. Just yesterday and today I cleaned up the biohazard rooms of my teenagers (they share by choice), my five year old and my eight year old. I discovered all kinds of strange and horrifying items, namely, hundreds of cardboard toilet paper tubes neatly squirreled away in a drawer (some had been slipped inside the other for greater storage efficiency).
An adult member of our household, who shall go unnamed, is a compulsive hoarder, and at least two of our children have inherited this trait. One is messy and open about it, but the other is calculating and squirrelly; cardboard tubes and writing utensils are her specialty. When she was five years old, I discovered hundreds of neatly ordered, unsharpened pencils lined up in her closet.
I threw out eight bags of clutter, garbage, broken toys, and useless oddities. I would go so far, as of this posting, to say the house is clean. So the soul of my paternal grandmother can rest in peace, in her icy grave.