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Me and the boys club...

I wish I could have taken a photo of the Grumpy Old Man and the boys early this afternoon as they stood in the kitchen, mouths slightly agape, eyes filmed in a thin glaze of, 'She's saying something but all I can hear is blah, blah, blah, toilet, blah, blah, blah pigsty...'

I'm glad, however, that no one was around to take any photos of me as I stood there yelling at the top of my lungs, eyes brimming with frustrated tears (yes, my tears were, in fact, frustrated because I was willing them to stay in my eyes when they wanted to slip-slide along my crows feet and down to my chin).

Why the hysteria (a man made word for sensible women who just can't bear another second of talking to themselves because the y-chromosonians in their lives have their ears turned off)?

Because during the long hours of tossing and turning each night, one of the thoughts that rolls around in my head is of me suddenly dying (at this rate it'll be from having spontaneously combusted in a fit of rage) and them having to cope on their own... Let me paint that picture for you.

Dishes would get washed when there were no clean dishes left. Even then, only two sinks full at most would be washed. One sink full would also be dried and put somewhere in the cupboards, the other would be left to dry in the close vicinity of remaining food encrusted dishes including every single pan and pot that wasn't actually in use.

School uniforms and shirts and smalls would get washed and dried, but not folded or put away, the night before they were to be used.

Surfaces would not be wiped down, unless they were about to used that minute.

The toilet would never get washed - except for the frequent splashing of urine on and around the bowl. Toilet rolls would get changed, but the empty rolls would be collected in the toilet ad infinitum.

The bathroom would never be washed.

No toys, clothes, bags, wrappers, books, papers, receipts, catalogues, bus tickets... well, you get the picture, would ever be put away or disposed of.

The grass would never be mowed.

Shopping would be done every day, as needed, and meals would consist of whatever to could dumped on a tray and heated in the over before being decorated with tomato sauce art.

Bills would not be paid because they would not be opened or even sighted because they would be dumped on the nearest available surface to the front door.

Getting in and out of the front door would become an Olympic challenge once the school bags, shoes, coats, hats, school projects, mail, and bits and pieces collected from hard rubbish were dumped there.

There would be no birthday presents, Christmas presents, Father's Day presents. No birthday presents for friends parties unless they were bought en route to the party.

The older boys would not go to high school because the Grumpy Old Man would not have enrolled them.

The furniture would become filthy and broken and never be replaced.

See, they stood there gaping because they have absolutely no idea why I need the toilet to be clean and why I need for them to notice when I haven't been cleaning it for much longer than I care to admit here a while and I need them to get a bucket and some hot soapy water and do it themselves without me asking, reminding, nagging, and yelling at the top of my voice.

The Grumpy Old Man once told that the wife of a mate of his up and left his mate and their two grown boys one day because she claimed she couldn't live in a 'boys club' anymore. I think the Grumpy Old Man thought I would be horrified by this woman's apparent abandonment of her family...

Dr Phil used to say (when I watched him years ago) that you can't change another person. That is something bothers you, instead of asking the other person to change it, acknowledge that you are the one bothered by it and change it yourself.

Well, I guess that's great if it's just you and one other person, but when it's you and 4.5 other people who just don't see the state of utter grossness around you - what do you do? Walk away? From your young children? Do it all yourself? Live in the mess that is quickly beginning to resemble a 'Hoarders' nightmare? Or do you yell at the top of your lungs until a least some of it gets done?

This is NOT my kitchen, but it is how I fear my
kitchen would become if I didn't yell or do it for them.
I do that last thing because I can't bear the thought that the boys might grow up thinking that someone else will always do it, or that it's okay to live in squalor. But I have to admit, some days just walking away looks very, very tempting...

Comments

no we can't change other people. we can however change how we respond and how we react emotionally. Not that it is easy, sometimes learning to accept what we have lets some of our own burden go....

how so much and so many rely on us.... xx
Kellie said…
You must have read my mind, Sif! I had a post like this written in my head in about five minutes flat after losing my shit this afternoon.
I'm glad I read yours though, it gave me a chance to really think!
Rhianna said…
Fairy wishes and butterfly kisses to you Sif, I had a very similar moment on the weekend as well. The worst part is I don't even have a boys club to blame it all on. I just can't stand the fact that we are expected to do everything. It is bad enough that we do so much be being expected to do it all is super sucky. Hope this week is looking better for you
coloursofsunset said…
OMG for a split second, before I saw the disclaimer, I thought that WAS your kitchen! I don't know what to tell you. I do all the cleaning b/c I'm the clean freak who breaks out in hives when the place isn't clean. It's the only way to stay sane. if I relied on DH to do it, I'd have gone into melt down years ago.
Oh Sif, I totally get this post. I feel the same here but I've only a hubby and two very little girls to worry about. Even as I was reading your post, however, I could not help the voice in my head (sounding s lot like my hubby's) which said they won't even notice it. That's the frustrating thing. My hubby doesn't even see the mess. I do. And that's the whole problem. Maybe you could walk away some time, but you'd need a very private room to hide in that was kept perfectly to your liking with a sign on the door "No gatecrashers allowed". Hoping it improves for you.

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