Earlier today I was well-intentioned to sit down this evening and write a post that would reveal some trivial tidbits about me, eg, who I am, why I moved to Sydney, what I do, where I come from, what I eat. Not that it would be compelling reading, and at any rate, it certainly wouldn't be my life story. But something tells me that one's initial blog posts should provide some degree of the author's background. And for the hapless souls who find themselves, serendipitously or otherwise, reading this blog, it only seems fair.
after spending nearly five hours, yes FIVE!, cleaning my step-son's room, I'm pooped. As my granddad in Arkansas would say, "My tired's a hangin' out." Indeed it is. This was no ordinary cleaning. You see, he started the new school year yesterday. This morning, when his father and I asked him if he had located certain, necessary items (goggles for swim class, library bag, etc), he flashed us his legendary deer-in-the-headlights look and slowly delivered that ubiquitous line that so successfully induces lip-pursing and jaw-clenching, "Oh, I was just going to go look for those." We suffered the usual two minutes that it takes for him to run upstairs, tumble contents out of a few boxes and bins, open and close the sliding closet doors, stand in awkward silence for a few seconds while readying himself for the revelation, and then clamber down the stairs with a shy, "I can't find them."
Even though I still maintain I am fairly new to parenting, this scenario has repeated itself enough times, in nearly perfect replay, that I feel I am afflicted with a strange, highly unwanted deja vu. Sensing the closeness of my frustration's threshold, I decided to vent not by getting cross, but by doing something that might help this poor, little fella in a more efficient manner. I waited for him and his father to leave for school/work, and I marched upstairs to do a quick scan of his room for the undiscovered items. After immediately finding the swimming goggles on the floor of his closet, I decided it was time for action. Something was keeping him from finding things, even when they were completely unhidden and unobscured. I stepped back and had a good look at his room. What a nightmare. The summer school holiday had seen his room creep into a slow state of disrepair at which even Oscar the Grouch would marvel. Well, no longer. Four and a half hours later, all of which were filled with an intense frenzy of cleaning, rearranging, sorting, tossing, packing and storing, and his room is now in a state of tidiness and organization never before seen. Yes, I realize I cannot expect it to stay that way. Bins will be emptied, the floor again covered, the desk littered and the closet shuffled. But that's quite okay. The neat freak in me, his estivation called to an abrupt end, is purring with tired contentment.