When the boys were toddlers, they were always with me. I packed them on trips to the grocery store, took them erranding and brought them on lunch dates with friends.
Yet the second — and I do mean the very second — my children were able to vacuum with some semblance of success, my beloved spouse whisked them off to assist him, thereby leaving me to do the laundry as well as the yard work all on my own.
Hard times, my dear friends. Hard times.
But this summer my beloved spouse gave me a gift. Call him a romantic — if you must — and a real Don Juan. In fact, Fabio has nothing on my Pat — for he is letting me keep our Little Charlie, who isn’t so little anymore, to assist me two full days a week. Go me!
It’s just in the nick of time, too. The sink is full of dirty dishes, socks are strewn about, and a pair of size 12 sneakers has all but ruined my July Fourth display.
Weeds are growing in the cracks, the dust has run amok, and I’ll be danged if we don’t have rings around the collars. Back when I had all of the boys at home on warm and sunny days, I went to the source of the problem and enlisted our charges to make the house shipshape.
Doling out household chores in the summertime was always one of my favorite pastimes. It generally started with boys stretched out all over couches and recliners, arms over their head as they moaned in anticipation of my favorite chore-assigning competition: The Number Game.
Although I was dressed in “mom shorts” and a tank top, my four sons viewed me as a drill sergeant as I stood poised with my clipboard and a ballpoint pen.
They would pick a number and wait in anticipation of the assigned task. I always liked to pause for effect and perhaps click my pen a couple of times before I would answer.
Whether it was sweeping the driveway or cleaning the peephole on the front door, they would react to hearing their assignment with gasps, whines and an ever-loving, “Ah, come on!”
Then the recipient would double over as if he had just taken a blow to the gut. Meanwhile, the other brothers would all cheer and applaud like a medieval crowd before the final gauntlet.
But their brotherly bliss was short-lived, for each had to have a turn. And when all was said and done, nary a one of them walked away with an outcome they desired.
So the summer days would go. I would dole out the chores; they would react as if they had just been injured; and, generally speaking, all of heaven and earth would break loose with enough violence to rival a Jerry Springer show and leave me longing for a commercial break.
But they would get it all done, and we would have enough time to take a swim, ride a bike or just lay on the front lawn and name the clouds.
Oh, those were the days.
These days it’s just Charlie and me. And woe to that little guy, for he has to be at his mother’s beck and call.
“Charlie,” I like to call on his two-day stint, “Can you empty the trash?” “Charlie, the dishwasher needs unloading.” “Charlie, did you feed the dog? Mow the lawn? And what say you pull all of the weeds in the flower beds?”
Then there is my own personal favorite: “Charlie, if you clean the entire basement, I’ll let you put away the laundry.”
You can’t tell it to look at him, but Little Charlie does — and I quote — “stinkin’ everything around here.”
“She’s a slave driver!” he’ll exclaim to anyone who will listen, and he oftentimes threatens to call and tell Grandma.
What Charlie doesn’t know is that we have company coming this weekend. We are going to be putting in some long days and hard nights, and that dusting is about to get pretty darned serious.
It’s time to get down to brass tacks, and I’m thinking of inviting all of the boys home for a couple of days and re-implementing my favorite pastime.
Perhaps I’ll even have Pat draw a number out of the bowl. Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons. You can reach her by sending an email to loriclinch2010@gmail.com.