I have a theory.
My theory is that each and every night a giant visits my house.
I doesn’t come in, it doesn’t bother us at all.
What it does is pick up our house, tilt it to a 45 degree angle, give it a shake, just enough for things to topple out of their otherwise neat and tidy place then the giant sits the house back in its’ foundations.
Each day I’m more convinced that my theory is plausible. Because nobody else puts things on the floor.
Yet, each morning I wake up, walk down the hall and there’s the clutter again, various bits and bobs scattered randomly all over every floor surface of the house.
There must be a giant. Unless of course it’s again the work of ‘the one’, because nobody in my family is ‘the one’ who makes the mess and ‘the one’ has a whole lot to answer for.
I understand and accept that life is busy. I get that bending down, placing one’s hand on a thing, locking the hand in place, lifting and then using the sheer stamina to put it away is a very very difficult feat.
But for goodness sake, why, WHY is it that the parents are the only ones who seem to be able to bend. Isn’t it our prerogative to NOT be flexible as we age? Aren’t the shorter people of the house closer to the ground and more able to grab these things?
Husband has a much better approach, anything he needs to pick up usually goes into the bin, particularly if it’s little and plastic. Since I’m usually the culprit that purchased the clutter in the first place I have a little more difficulty with that.
We’ve tried storage containers, cupboards, rules, penalties and rewards but somehow there still manages to be a towel in the middle of the loungeroom floor, or a pair of shoes (or three) strewn across the dining room, not to mention school bags and then there’s the doll accessories.
So in utter desperation I’ve left a note for the giant.
“Dear giant, if you don’t mind could you please pick up a skip bin on your way over tonight (or maybe three). Could you raise the tilt of the house just a little more ridding us of our clutter, if it’s not nailed down it goes into the bin, with thanks, my aching back’.
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