When To Stop Caring

You wouldn't believe what mounds are in the other daughter's rooms.

When they were little, I spent 99.8% of my time cleaning up. I thought I would die holding a broom in my hand. Little people produce large messes.

And then they grew up. You'd think the messes would diminish. Nope. They just rotate to their bedrooms. I literally avoid going in those rooms unless it's necessary. And I advert my eyes. On the good days I humor myself and count all the bottles, chip bags, cups and bowls. I have a strange way of entertaining myself.

Oh, and by the way, when we moved into this house a made a grand, final, foot-stomping rule that food stays in the kitchen. You hear me? The kitchen only!

I clearly have authority around here. In fact, in order to have authority, they'd actually have to listen to the words that come out of my mouth. That right there is the real culprit.

At some point, I stopped caring. About a lot of things. Teenagers will do that to you. It's like they whittle you down to a nub. And the list of what you really care about becomes quite small. Crap all over their bedrooms? I'm over it. The words you decide to speak to me? Ah, now there's something that's on the list.

There is freedom in not caring. About the stuff that doesn't really matter. Take a look at the list of all the things that drive you crazy and just remove a few (or a lot) items. It's rather life changing.

From Erma Bombeck:
"My theory on housework is, if the item doesn't multiply, smell, catch fire, or block the refrigerator door, let it be. No one else cares. Why should you?"

Amen.