I asked Everett, my 5-year-old, to put his gloves back in the glove holder. This is what he did:
So close, right? And yet, so far away. It reminded me of this (from a post in 2010, appropriately entitled, "Put your pants in the godamned basket"):
Those are my husband's jeans. Apparently tossing his pants just a mere inch farther was too much effort.
Truth be told, I've loved every minute of this parenting journey I'm on with my boys. I've loved the glimpses it's provided me into the male psyche. I love that I know more about the male species than I ever intended to. Boys are more sensitive than I ever knew, and more caring and compassionate than we ever give them credit for. And to all the clothing companies that design clothing for boys, boys don't only care about footballs, skateboards, cars and lizards (if at all, hello). Boys like graphic novels, paintbrushes, mud and potty talk, thank you very much.
They also loves their moms. Fiercely.
But this. This male gene for almost-in-the-basket or almost-in-the-glove-holder needs to be discussed more. There needs to be some kind of psychological summit to discuss its ramifications because, if you couldn't already guess, there are continents of women who are bending over more than they have to and putting things where they belong more than they have to. And all that bending and tidying is robbing us ladies of precious time, time we could be spending doing more productive things.
Things like, oh, I don't know, fighting world hunger or negotiating peace treaties. Or making yogurt! I mean, that's what I do when I have some down time.
For those of you who would like to respectfully disagree with this post, I give you this photo, texted to me just days ago by my bestest friend. Those are her boyfriend's pants-again, mere inches from the hamper. She wrote this:
Why can't he get it into the basket? Whhhhhhyyyyyy?
Why indeed, gentlemen. Why indeed.
Have an evidenciary photo you'd like share? Send it my way. The only way we're going to get through this is together. I mean, I'll organize a march if I have to.
As soon as I get done picking this bathrobe up off the floor and putting it in the....hamper.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.