Mark and I are trying to usher the kids through their Saturday chores so we can get this place whipped into shape and get to Levi's soccer game. And because, good heavens, let's just get it done already. We cajole and remind and follow-up. The kids act like they have never before experienced this "cleaning of bedroom" of which we speak. They resist and complain and whine before ambling off to do what my mother would call "half-way jobs." (Mark's dad had a slightly more colorful term for it.)
I lose it when I walk into the laundry room. The floor is covered with what I presume is a mix of dirty and clean laundry. Yesterday's clean laundry is piled in a basket--wet. The contents of the dryer are also wet. It's been mildewing all night. The carelessness! The laziness! The slovenliness! The disrespect for clean laundry!
It's too much to bear.
Somehow, finally, the kids have hit their stride. I look up to see Logan heading out the back door with a pair of hedge trimmers. Roscoe comes in the front door from having vacuumed out the car, a neatly coiled extension cord in hand. Even Jesse is sorting clean silverware from the dishwasher caddy into the drawer. Bedrooms have been dusted, sheets washed, the lawn mowed.
Once again the nefarious forces of entropy have been held at bay.