About 30 seconds after my first child was born, I somehow became the master of all of her stuff.
The same isn't true of the second child, by the way. His stuff is generally not my problem. This might be the result of moving into a house where his big sister has already laid claim to anything even remotely interesting.
I'm ready to hand off my title of Stuff Master, frankly.
The barrage of questions about where her doll's hairbrush (or left boot or homework or the cat) is has gotten on my last nerve.
It's somehow my fault if she loses her place in the book she's reading. If I dare throw out a scrap of paper that was on the mud room table for two weeks without every being looked at, I have done the moral equivalent of kicking a kitten, judging by her response.
I am not a diligent master of her stuff, mostly because I have enough to worry about. Besides, she's old enough at this point to keep track of her own hair bands and bike helmet.
When she leaves a debris field _ you know, leaving a toy or book or piece of fabric behind in every corner and on every flat surface of every room she walks through _ I pick it all up and throw it on the floor of her room. Then I wheedle at her until she puts it away. And she ignores me until I start threatening to throw it all away.
Which is followed by pouting and grousing by both parties. Then she puts her stuff away.
It's a dysfunctional system, sure. But it is a system.
What irritates me most about being the master of stuff are the hours the job requires.
"Mom," the Diva said a few mornings ago as she was poking me in the shoulder.
"What?" I said, rolling over in my bed to see what time it was. Which was followed by a sigh when I realized I didn't have to be up for another hour.
"Do you know where my lime green capris are?"
"Why would I know that?"
"You do the laundry and put things away and lose them."
"From now on, you're putting your own laundry away." I was tempted to tack "missy" onto the end of that sentence but was too tired to work up enough ire.
"So you know where my lime green capris are."
"You don't have lime green capris."
"I do," she insisted. "Grandma got them for me."
"I don't think she did," I said. "Or if she did, I haven't seen them. Or touched them. Or washed them. Or picked them up off of the floor when you left them there."
"So you lost them, Mom," she said, rolling her eyes.
"First, I haven't even touched them. Second, giving attitude to someone you're asking a favor of never gets you what you want. And, third, have you looked in your drawer, you know, the one that has all of your pants in it?"
She flounced out of the room. I rolled over and tried to get back to sleep. Just as I drifted off, the poking started again.
"They aren't there, Mom," she said, sounding like she might burst into tears.
"I don't know what to tell you." I said. "I have no memory of you even owning lime green capris. Sorry, sweetie."
That's when the sobbing started. Each tear-filled sob was punctuated by the insistence that she did have them and I lost them and she had to wear them.
Because I am a good mom or, at least, try to maintain the illusion that I am one, I got up to help her look.
No lime green capris were located but she was, eventually, persuaded to make do with a kelly green pair of shorts with daisies on them.
This Sunday morning, long after I'd considered the matter closed, the Diva came bounding into my room. I was awake this time, if not out of bed.
"Look, Mom!" she said. "I found it!"
She flapped a lime green T-shirt at me.
"That's not pants," I said.
"I just got confused. This was what I was looking for. Not pants." She smiled shyly at me.
"But ...," I said, then let it go. The master of stuff knows when to leave well enough alone.
Adrienne Martini is a freelance writer, instructor at the State University College at Oneonta, mom to Maddy and Cory, wife to Scott, and author of "Sweater Quest," last year. Her columns can be found at www.thedailystar.com/ parentingimperfect.
Parenting Imperfect
Being the Stuff Master to the Diva takes a lot of work
- Parenting Imperfect
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I'm relieved it's not just me
For the last few years, I've been convinced that I'm just harder on things than other people are.
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A tactical error in the handoff
My kids are lucky enough to have half of their grandparents within a three-hour drive.
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A potentially quiet afternoon interrupted by a dog and a balloon
The kids spent most of Martin Luther King Jr. Day bickering.
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The dog is a getting to be an expert at training
This sentence took 20 minutes to type.
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Bad things can happen when trends are no longer trendy
When I was a kid, it used to drive me bonkers that my mom didn't know anything about the most important things in my world. She had no idea what a friendship pin was or how you'd make one. She couldn't name any good band, i.e., the ones a pre-teen would listen to like Duran Duran or Wham. And she didn't find Robert Downey Jr. nearly as dreamy as I did.
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Letting go can be more difficult for me than the kids
And so we enter the silly season, the one in which all of us run around like chickens without noggins.
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Despite all the fighting, sometimes the kids get along
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Going to church about much more than religious talk
After a good five years of fully intending to go to church but never quite making it out of the house on a Sunday morning, we've been attending since the beginning of the year.
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Lessons learned from puppy a lot like those from kids
And so our first summer with a dog closes. Lessons have been learned, as I suspected they might. In case you are pondering a similar addition to your house, here are a few of them.
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Summer and the wonderment of caterpillars, butterflies
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Beware the Zombie Squirrel
This is a story about Zombie Squirrel.
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Strangest days are right before the school year ends
This month's column may be more scattered than usual. As I write this, we're in that limbo between when I'm off for the summer and when my kids are. It's one of the strangest times of the year.
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Diva finally got what she wanted for half her life
I am weak.
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A parenting phobia that will leave you scratching your head
One of my two worst parent phobias came to pass last month. Even simply typing its name makes my head all swimmy. The Diva, as happens to kids her age, succumbed to lice, passed along by one of her fellow fourth-graders.
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Oh, how the worries change as the children grow
Most days, we are all just trying to do our best under really challenging circumstances.
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Newborn phase would be much better if there were deadlines
Friends of mine just had their first baby.
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I just don't know if I can turn over control of the washer quite yet
I'm starting to think that the Diva should be taking care of her own laundry. My reasons are many.
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Bathing children shouldn't have to be this hard
I just hurt my throat while yelling at my children.
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The Christmas crunch is getting to be way too much
There are two reasons that I would like to be Canadian.
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The Kingdom of the Mouse offers lessons and true magic
Some opportunities simply fall into your lap.
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I'm relieved it's not just me
