One of the happiest frustrations is not finding the end of the roll of toilet paper. Oh, how it pleases me while at the same time makes me want to rip my hair out, spinning the toilet paper roll a few times ’round. Sometimes after the third spin I go existential: “Is there even an end?” Or I’ll question whether it’s one of those staircase trick-of-the-eye pictures that goes infinitely into itself.
Either way, it’s things like that, the silly small moments of absurdity, that make me think, What’s wrong with me? And how fun is that?
I need to teach a master class in organization and decluttering. Actually, no, a doctorate level. I’m THAT good. The upper-level course involves recruiting loved ones, friends, the milk man or milk woman to get gloved up and dirty. So far, the office and kitchen have been done this way, and just earlier today the front porch was deep cleaned—Evelyn with mop, me with soap, rags, and window-cleaning supplies, and Dave with the broom and Shop-Vac. It’s similar to Dan Aykroyd and Bill Murray in Ghostbusters, only we’re more cobwebbed than slimed.
Evelyn, who’s addicted to togetherness and is pleased when roles and tasks are clearly delineated, said as she was swiping sudsy water up and down the vinyl siding, “I want to do this ALL day.” She called me Master Mom after I’d answered with, “I tell you both what to do,” when she asked what my job would be.
Turns out she hasn’t quite learned the nuance of leadership versus bossiness yet, or perhaps the more developmentally appropriate understanding that being in charge doesn’t necessarily mean telling everyone else what to do.
But honestly, I kind of love her version of it.
Master Mom, it is.
Love, Jaclynn
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