I t has always been an aspiration of mine to raise boys who are domesticated. Not in the way that one would train a cat or dog, mind you (although house training is always a plus), but I strive to be the kind of mother whose boys know their way around a kitchen.
After all, wouldn’t it be nice to have a son who is not only a lawyer, but could also whip up a culinary delight with ease? Just imagine how my daughter-in-law would sing my praises.
I began teaching the boys when they were young. I had them involved from the get-go with whipping up omelets and cake baking, and anyone privy to see them make cookies at Christmastime would have to be impressed.
Unless, of course, they have a problem with grubby hands and germs.
I don’t limit it to the cooking, however. As any good chef will tell you, a clean kitchen is a productive one, and as I learned from my dear mother, not everything needs to soak overnight.
Although they know not to take a Chore Boy to the pizza stone, there seems to be 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 boys, than to take on that daunting task.
On any given Saturday, I like to appear in their midst with a list of assignments and commence to play the chore game.
Generally speaking, I’m not met with a round of applause, nor do they rise from their seats and throw their arms over their heads 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 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 didn’t really complain when their number came up and they were assigned to scrape last night’s chili off the microwave door.
Yet when Charlie picked number seven and learned that he’d have to unload the dishwasher, he let out a heartfelt, “Oh, come on!”
He tried to barter with Lawrence, who picked number three (Mom’s little laundry helper), and offered to take number four (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 defense. I must admit he had a good point for no one cooks like Huey. He uses no fewer than two spoons, tries his luck with all of the spatulas, and uses two pans before pouring the whole concoction into an oversized strainer.
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 their hiding spots.
As many times as Charlie has 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 amid the platters, and heaven help me if I’m ever able to lay my fingers on my small, yet well utilized, garlic press.
Although I’m mentally prepared for what I’ll find when Charlie has completed his much-loathed number seven, 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 nononsense 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 anything in the form of a legally binding contract.”
Although I overruled him, he 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.