“You have to help me!”


“But you have to! I can’t take it! I just can’t take it!.”

“I said no.”

“But I’m dying!”

“Well, at least pick up your crayons, then.”

And she does. Fini. The worst thing in the whole world that I can do to her, apparently, is to ask her to  pick up her own damned stuff. Cuts her deep, it does. But the entire living room looks like the bins have violently vomited up cars, trains, markers, crayons, little people, blocks, lincoln logs….ugh. I can’t take it anymore. I just can’t. Doesn’t she know I have cleaning issues? Or maybe she does. Maybe she’s seeing something I do…or don’t do….and is just copying what she’s seeing. Well, that’s not giving her a free pass. No way. I’m not picking up her shit. N-uh.

I’m stubborn. She is, too. Her friends have begun to notice. She has ideas about how everything should be….the Christmas tree, the obstacle course they set up in the backyard, and which movie to watch, of course.  I’m really looking forward to the holiday weekend together, but I think of the future of us, and I see us fighting like cats and dogs; a collision of wills drumbeating against each other. As long as she knows I always love her, anyway.

The baby birds are doing very, very well. They are twice their original size now, and their previously naked wings are sporting tiny feathers. I don’t think their eyes have opened yet, and they still kind of resemble aliens. Their beaks are black, and will remain so until the first molt, when they’ll become either orange if they’re female, or red if they are males.  The parents have been doing a great job. I can tell every time I look at them, by observing the crops along their necks, which are little sacks stuffed with seeds and greens. The first time I saw this yellow bulge on my birds, I thought it was a tumor. But it’s actually a very, very good sign. They are developing right on que and moving around more and more.

It’s all particularly exhausting for the parents, who need all the extra protein they can get, in the form of mashed eggs. I recognize that weary blinking of the eye I catch in Miles.

How far we’ve both come.


3 Responses to “”

  1. 1 Doktor Holocaust November 29, 2008 at 9:18 pm

    nobody likes cleaning. especially little kids. as adults, we (theoretically) have learned that a steady stream of little bursts of cleaning will maintain desired levels of neat and tidy. kids haven’t developed the craving for a certain baseline level of neat-and-tidy yet – they’re young, half-feral primates gradually learning how to be civilized by way of parental intervention, so they are quite comfortable amidst the sort of chaos that makes neat-freaks (like my grandmother) spontaneously combust.

    this is why, as a kid, I had to keep a fire extinguisher by my bedroom door, so I could extinguish grandma. those were the days.

    I cleaned recently, and i detest cleaning still. I dug through some old drawers, was thoroughly bewildered by their contents, which I hadn’t really looked at in over a year, dumped everything out of them into the trash, and put them to use storing actual things I use from time to time.

  2. 2 petitmuse December 1, 2008 at 10:27 pm

    you are right about the half-feral part. she still growls at strangers and meows to those she likes.

    i have no idea how this kid is going to acquire the neatness thing when I am so deficient in that quality myself.

  3. 3 Doktor Holocaust December 2, 2008 at 9:58 am

    if its any consolation, I am living proof that people can survive without much neatness.

    I used to meow at people I liked. I grew out of it eventually. by my mid 20s, but that was a time in my life when I didn’t like much of anyone.

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