I t has always been an aspiration of mine to raise boys who are domesticated. Not in the way one would housebreak a cat or dog, mind you. But I strive to be the kind of mother whose boys know their way around the house.
Just imagine how a daughter-in-law would sing my praises if I raised a son who was not only a lawyer, but also could whip up a culinary delight with ease. Or a man who could build a garden shed while roasting a brisket as he added refuse to the compost.
A woman can always dream.
I began training my sons when they were young. From the get-go, I involved them with yard pruners and impact drills, and anyone privy to see them make cookies at Christmas would certainly have to be impressed.
When it comes to cooking, we have rules. As any good chef will tell you, a clean kitchen is a productive one. And, as I learned from my dear mother, not every pan needs to soak.
Although they know not to take a Chore Boy to the pizza stone and the best way to use a degreaser, our sons seem to have a mental block when it comes to unloading the dishwasher.
Believe it or not, constituents about the Clinch abode would rather clean a bathroom — even the one specifically assigned to the male species — than to take on the daunting task of unloading the dishwasher.
When given a chance, I like to appear in their midst with a list of assignments and commence to play the Chore Game.
Generally speaking, I am not received with a round of applause, and our sons do not rise from their seats to give me a crowd wave. Rather, they pull blankets up over their eyes, duck under the coffee table and the wisest among them will fake a flu.
But I stand strong on my many years of experience. Even the older boys, recently home on a college break, were expected to participate.
They took the task of step-sweeping in stride and did not really complain when their number came up and they were assigned to scrape chili off the microwave door.
Yet when Charlie picked lucky No. 7 and learned he would have to unload the dishwasher, he let out a heartfelt, “Ahhh, come on!”
He tried to barter with Lawrence, who picked No. 3 (mating socks), and offered to take No. 4 (mirror cleaning) from Vernon, to no avail. Finally, he pleaded his case to Huey.
“Most of the dishes are yours,” he said in an attempt to argue his case. I must admit he had a good point, for no one cooks like Huey. He uses no less than two spoons, tries his luck with all of the spatulas and uses two pans before pouring the whole concoction into an oversized strainer.
Then he walks away.
Yet, and needless to say, Charlie was stuck with his unwanted chore and put it off until he had vacuumed the living room, emptied the trash and pulled dirty socks out of hiding spots.
As many times as Charlie lucked out with the task of unloading the dishwasher, I must say there is no one who does it worse. He places the measuring cups in the bowl section, the dessert plates amidst the platters — and heaven help me if I’m ever able to lay my fingers on my small yet well-used garlic press.
Although I was mentally prepared for what I would find when Charlie completed his muchloathed task, I still was taken aback as I walked into the kitchen to find that he had stacked the bulk of the dishes on the counter and simply walked away. “Charlie!” I summoned him in my no-nonsense tone.
“Yes, Mom?” he asked as he rounded the corner, doing his best to flash his baby blues.
“You call this emptying the dishwasher?”
“It’s empty, isn’t it?”
“But you didn’t put anything away.”
“You didn’t say I had to put anything away.” “Well, it was implied!” “There wasn’t a verbal agreement or a legally binding contract.”
Although I overruled him, Charlie did make a pretty good case.
But now I’m thinking that perhaps a lawyer for a son might not be such a good idea after all. Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her by sending an email to [email protected].