Finley is six now and more often than we ever did before I find we are coming to the sort of blows that usually have me bursting a blood vessel in the effort not to scream and stamp my slipper shod feet while he looks back at me with the kind of nonchalance a little boy only wears when he is busy internally marking another cross on the “there she goes again” chart.
The cause of our arguments?
I love my Finley to bits but I am fighting a permanent battle against chaos, and I am starting to wonder whether perhaps now is the time to draw the line: to get all hard-line about the mess and start inflicting rules and chores and Mommy directives to save me going completely off my head. Don’t get me wrong: I’m no pushover, but perhaps because I’ve been so consumed by making allowances for a condition that dictates his ability to keep still, and focus and organize everything from his school-work to his thoroughly haphazard attitude to clothes, I have let him get away with a bit more than the average Mommy would generally tolerate. I worry that what is oblivion to mess will one day develop into a complete lack of respect for she who has to clear it up.
Finley is six- how much do you, or did you expect of your six year olds with regard to keeping his or her corner of the world tidy? Is interrupting playtime to set your child up with a duster and polish tantamount to evil?. Am I on the road to ruin by allowing him to be a child while I bang my head against a flock wall? Is it too late to inflict a little tidiness upon his gloriously happy, carefree, curly topped soul?
Mess. Finley is a one boy mess machine. And this is no ordinary mess. This is Finley mess, this is Sensory Processing Disorder I can’t stop bouncing off the wall’s mess. This is my head is very busy thinking great big thoughts and I’m sorry but disorder doesn’t register in my brain kind of mess. The kind of mess that shouts with sheer, utter joy twenty four seven and has his teacher shaking her head in utter bewilderment at me and declaring, “We’ve never had a child like him.” The kind of mess that wears holes in the new school trousers I seem to be buying fortnightly. The kind of mess that falls off chairs and leaves a trail of crumbs everywhere it goes. The kind of mess with a permanently snotty nose, dirty fingernails and a couldn’t care less attitude to a level of desperate untidiness that makes all grown up, desperately tired Mommies want to hug it away, disinfect him from head to foot and take a chuggy chuggy train ride to a place where scrumptious little boys don’t dash around the house breaking, quite accidentally, everything in their path.
So my question for today is this: should our babba’s have babba related chores?