Lightening the load

It wasn't a made for Instagram kind of moment.

A child of mine had asked me to "clean up a little" because some friends were coming over.

Evidently, she didn't want them to see how we lived.

I knew a time would come when my teacup humans no longer fit into their dainty saucers. I knew their spiral from cheeky child to tenterhooks teen could be jarring. I imagined that while they might still extend a finger as they converse with me over tea, it would not always be the pinky.

I was ready.

Or so I thought.

At least I knew when that time arrived; I could blame hormones.

I also thought, mistakenly, as it turns out, that by the time we put away those mountains of childish things with their tiny, primary-colored parts, a different sort of order would settle over the house.

A neutral-colored peace and quiet.

But now that my kids are starting to mature into their super-sized selves, I am beginning to understand that they will be leaving those earth-toned oversized mugs - along with their food wrappers and the adult-sized clothes they wore from 3:30 to 5:30 as they hung out in the living room waiting for a friend to Snapchat or whatnot - everywhere.

Mountains and mountains of adult-sized stuff.

And none of it where it should be.

"Why is there a plate on the toilet?"

"Is there a reason we are carpeting the floor with blankets?"

"Oh my god, what is that smell?"

"I didn't think it was possible to use every pot in the kitchen to make two servings of macaroni and cheese."

At the risk of my sanity, I have stopped cleaning up after people directly, but to protect my voice, I have begun to harangue them using only clipped sentences.

Points to candy wrappers all over the couch:

"Garbage can."

Sees kid dragging a week's worth of laundry down to the washing machine at 9:30 on a Sunday night then retreats to a darkened lair.

*walks detergent up to aforementioned lair*

"Missed a step."

*Picks up barely worn sweatshirt from the floor using thumb and forefinger*

"Put. This. Away. ..."

"And not in the laundry hamper. ..."

"The stink of detergent hasn't even worn off."

Silence.

I might as well be standing there holding the white, fluffy hooded flag of surrender.

The shirt will go away. It will drape on a chair for a while until it appears again, in the same unsoiled state but hidden in a full load of rumpled, half-clean clothes.

My only recourse seemed to be to lighten my own load: offsetting the planet-killing water-wasting ways of my can't-be-seen wearing-the-same-clothes-twice teens by refolding their try-em-ons myself and secretly putting them away unwashed.

That and buying two merino wool shirts to wear unashamedly like daily, natural antibacterial skin (or so the marketing has convinced me) in protest.

Laundering, as the directions instruct, only when soiled.

Of course, teens think this is the height of grossness.

"You'll thank me when the sheep of Instagram save the planet."

Until then, the place is going to be a mess. Advise your friends accordingly.