Raising an adult child

The other day as I was picking up casually tossed shoes, cereal bowls, and papers off the floor, while I was turning off lights left on by others and moving furniture back to its rightful place, it hit me: When this new baby comes I won't just be raising two children. I already have two children. I'll be raising three.

The difference between Chicky and her soon to be sister and this other kid is this: Chicky weighs in at a trim 30 pounds and she's under three feet tall. The other is 5'10, would kill me if I divulged his weight on the internet, and is 35 years old.

The third child that I'm raising is my husband. But you probably already figured that out, didn't you?

Smart readers. Oooh, so smart readers.

It's hard to decide who I get after most to clean up after themselves or just to be somewhat human and less simian while I'm around, Mr. C or Chicky. They both burp loudly at the dinner table. They both throw things at me when I ask for them instead of nicely handing them to me (and don't think Mr. C has better aim than my kid, they're pretty equal). They both leave their socks on the floor and complain when the same dirty socks are found in the dogs' mouths soon after.

And don't even get me started on the flatulence. I've never seen two people more proud of the gas they produce.

If anything, Chicky is more conscientious. She'll help me with the laundry and is very happy to turn a light off when she leaves the room. And no cabinet door or dishwasher shall be left open for more than two seconds if someone is not actively putting things into or pulling things out of it.

Mr. C? These signs have been up in our cabinets for years now.



Guess how often he actually pays attention to them.

My husband was raised by a woman who taught him, Lawd bless her, to respect all people, not just women but did not teach him the fine art of picking up after his own ass. That means that my dear husband, who loves and cherishes me and will occasionally give me a foot rub when I whine enough threaten ask for one, who provides for his family by working 'round the clock and getting four hours of sleep a night, is not exactly the guy who will go out of his way to consider "What would make my wife's life easier?". Chivalrous is not exactly a word I would use to describe him. Tidy is not one either.

Picking up that subscription card that fell out of the magazine he was reading and is now laying in the middle of a nice clean floor? Nah, he'll never notice it.

He's not the guy who'll lay his jacket down over a mud puddle for a lady, but he'll help you across. Just prepare to get your cute shoes muddy, it won't kill you. Besides, you should have known better than to wear those shoes on such a crappy day.

Dirty coffee cups? Coats hung up on the bannister or on the closet door instead of actually IN the closet? Power tools used to do odd jobs around the house now left on kitchen counters well within reach of little hands instead of back down into the basment? The magical fairies come in the middle of the night and bring all these things back to their enchanted world of "Away", don't they?

Sigh.

Sadly, there are no fairies and I am the ruler of the magical world of "Away". As in, put that damn stuff Away before I pack it all up and sell it on EBay or just toss it in the garbage.

I love that man. Life would not run as smoothly, all things considered, around here without him. He works the heavy machinery that scares the daylights out of me, like snow blowers and electric screw drivers, brings home the bacon, cleans the pool and handles the bills and I... Do everything else.

Unless I bitch loud enough. And believe me, I can bitch.

I've taught my daughter who is not yet three to help sort darks and lights for the laundry, I can certainly, with patience and persistence, teach my husband to help out without having to throw staplers at his head. And I, too, have very good aim.

The other weekend Mr. C took it upon himself to help out a tired and sore pregnant lady and folded four baskets of laundry without having to be asked. I call that a step in the right direction.

All I had to do was leave the clean laundry in those damn baskets for almost two weeks, unfolded, until he got sick of pulling wrinkled t-shirts out of them to wear and was turning his boxers inside out to get more use out of them because there were no clean ones folded nicely in his dresser drawer.

Next I think I'll install self-closing doors on the cabinets.