Are We There Yet? • LORI CLINCH
I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I do have my wits about me. For example, I like to play a rousing Igame of "Who gets to empty the trash?" with the kids as we pull into the garage after school each day.
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Generally one child will call out, "I’ll do it!" and another will argue, "No, sir, you got to do it yesterday!" This will spark a debate that will conjure up details and images or concrete proof of which one got to do it yesterday and which one gets tomorrow, and then the other one will hang his head and walk into the house defeated.
Now, before you get to thinking that the Clinch children are conscientious and perhaps aliens from Mars, let me explain further. You see emptying the trash is a dependable chore and what the Clinch boys know all too well is that while emptying the trash could be considered an undesirable task, there will certainly be a another chore doled out that could consist of scrubbing the tub or something as demeaning as folding a load of boxer shorts.
It’s a gamble they’re not willing to take.U
nloading the dishwasher comes in at number four on the list of seriously-nofun chores. In at number three is vacuuming the living room. Number two would be cleaning the boys’ bathroom, and in long standing at number one of the worst of all chores would be anything that involves having to work outside on a cold day with the Clinches’ number one bad-chore-guy, dear old dad.
We’ll all go into hiding at the prospect of that one.
Take, for instance, a recent afternoon that involved cold temperatures and a brisk wind. While the rest of the free world was snuggled under a blankie with a hot mug of cocoa, my beloved spouse was out working in the elements.
Knowing that their father was looking for assistance in a frigid environment, the boys utilized their survival skills and remained under cover. One hid out in the office under a science book while the other two hid in front of the TV under a pile of dirty clothes and viewed Sponge- Bob SquarePants from behind a pair of no-show anklets with a reinforced heel.
I don’t know what came over me. Some might call it love, others loyalty, but most likely it was a case of guilt and obligation that goes as far back as our marriage vows. Like I said, I’m not the sharpest tool. Whatever the reason, I felt the need to go out into the elements and help that man of mine.
I started with two pairs of socks, doubled up on the long johns and took it upon myself to toss on an extra hoodie. I then donned a pullover fleece, a winter coat and accented the outfit with a pair of mechanic blue coveralls. What I lacked in fashion, I made up for in bulk.
Luckily for me, by the time I’d dressed in a bajillion layers, that husband
of mine was just finishing up on his outdoor tasks, and within 30 minutes I was leaving his Arctic side and heading back indoors. It wasn’t until I walked in the house that it dawned on me that the kids shouldn’t get off scotfree.
Smiling to myself as I went, I ambled through the house looking as if I were about to embark on a cross country race via a dog-pulled sled and searched for the boys.
"Say," I said to a science book that was hiding my Huey, "do you want to do the dishes after supper or go out and help your dad?" He peeked at me in all of my Iditarod attire, and then responded, "I’m definitely all about the dishes."
"Well, hello, little dears," I said to the younger two boys who were busily constructing a make-shift tent out of a basketball jersey and a pair of sweat pants. "Charlie, would you like to go outside and help your dad or unload the dishwasher?"
"No fair!" exclaimed our Lawrence. "He always gets to choose? Let me unload the dishwasher!"
"No way," retaliated Charlie, "you got to unload the dishwasher yesterday!"
"Not to worry," I said to Lawrence, "you can either go out and help your Dad or make supper."
"You just call me Emeril!" Lawrence exclaimed.
With supper out of the way and no work to be done out on the tundra, I peeled off my layers, grabbed a magazine and slumped onto the couch with a fine cup of hot coffee.
I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I ain’t the dullest one either.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch. com.