I’ve got to get ready
Even though they won't be coming, I feel my parents nudging me. I kick into Dad mode. Make a list and assign chores to anyone who is standing nearby or is expected to be standing nearby in the coming hours. Used to be that was my kids’ seasonal horror. “You didn’t sweep the floor,” I’d scold, noticing the lone piece of lint or errant Lego 2x6 on the floor, but overlooking the barren Berber covering the remainder of the floor. I’ve grown since then. Nowadays, I’m more grateful for the help I get. Sad to say, it’s probably because I only have one potential helper, my husband, who might decide I’m being bossy and just turn on the TV. Then the list will be mine to manage completely. Dad was one for organization: lists of chores and assignments on the weekly. Remuneration listed on a homemade spreadsheet awaiting completion checks. He counted out nickels and quarters for shined shoes or loads of laundry, a clean bathroom, or a dusted and swept living room. Girls’ jobs. Unfairly, my brothers got to burn the trash, with its sporadic excitement, when something like the grass or their clothes caught fire. Mom had other ways of motivating. She was no fool at 24, with three kids under five. Excitement was more enticing than chores. My older brothers got to help make dinner before they went to first grade. Mom had better ways to spend time than doing chores. Later, after her teacher program child psychology classes, Mom knew the most effective rewards are inconsistent. Occasionally, coins and bills began appearing under the dirty dishes on the counter. Any kid needing ready cash could come away all the richer after 30 minutes with Ajax and a sponge. And with no nagging or scolding, the dishes were done! Today, I start in Dad mode: whiteboard and markers to list the tasks. The “Have To Do” column far exceeds the “Nice To Do” column. I think aloud and put my initials near the tasks I plan to do. I gingerly mention them, interspersed with the ones I hope my better half will tackle. He doesn’t respond well to assignments, but he’s happy to pitch in when he can volunteer. He does. I text him the grocery list, and he heads for the truck. I go out back to finish up yesterday’s outdoor tasks before tonight’s rain. Minutes in, I’m proud of my aching arms and pushing on. "I’ll be finished before hubby gets back!" Then Mom adds her voice to the job. "Oh! The leaves and stack of wood I need to move are hiding Lilies of the Valley! How pretty!" Maybe I can grow them after all! I’ll just gently uncover them. "Aren’t they sweet? Do they smell yet? Ahhhh…" I stand back. "Maybe I should mulch this area! It’ll look more finished! There’s a pile of mulch out back." Dad interrupts. "That’s not on the list. Finish stacking wood and raking debris. Then mop the deck. Get out that new string mop and bucket you just bought to clean the mud from the newly-painted off-white deck boards. You can do it!" I start. I even swab most of the deck, like some sailor of yore. But then my voice pipes up, drowning out voices from the past: "Who uses these old-fashioned things anymore? Am I actually removing any dirt?" I look into the wringer cavity. The water’s barely brown. "Will anyone even notice that I’ve mopped? Won’t they be having too much fun laughing and telling stories to notice mud streaks in the grain of the wood?"
I slap the strings onto the boards and change directions. "This is hard work! Too hard! Wouldn’t it go faster and be more effective to pressure wash it? To let my husband pressure wash it? Is he home yet?" Then I hear a chime. "It’s my alarm! Saved! Time to jump in the shower! I have places to be, places on my list!" "And I still have pansies to plant in urns near the front door, purple and yellow and orange and white. And pussywillow branches for accent." "I'll just let the rain finish the mopping tonight." "Thanks, Mom!"
