by Rhonda Schrock
A new year has begun. A fresh chapter waits to be written, along with my goals for the year.
I like goals, see, but I’ve never been big on New Year’s resolutions. For the most part, they don’t seem to work. If I were, however, this would be a prime example of what I, as a responsible citizen, should make one about. But because I’m a procrastinator and proud leader of the local PA (Procrastinators Anonymous), the list remains blank.
This whole procrastinating deal is just ripe for a firm, strongly-worded resolution. Interesting things happen when it shows up in the laundry room, for instance. Let’s say ‘someone’ is getting ready to go to work at a local restaurant and suddenly realizes that none of his uniforms have been washed. Panic sets in. Inside of 30 seconds, he has convened a one-man tribunal, and the head laundress is tried, convicted, and court-martialed. Never mind that he is a muscular, able-bodied young man. I’m about to be hung.
Or let’s say Mr. Schrock is getting ready to run and discovers that his favorite running suit is still in the hamper. Oops! Clearly, his recycling tendencies come to a screeching halt in front of the washer. When I suggested he try this, he stared at me as if I’d sprouted a third eyeball. And when I offered him a fresh pair of jeans to run in, he simply went back to waving his arms in the air, which, I noted, were whole and unbroken.
He, on the other hand, has made two resolutions – to lose weight and to get more sleep. If I were into resolutions, this would be a great place to start. After all, if toddlers start crying and small dogs set to barking when you back up, something should be done.
What would really be fun, however, is if, for one year, we could make resolutions for other people. Now, I could get into that. Here’s how my list would begin.
“I resolve that heretofore sons one, two, and three shall quit running the 50-gallon hot water heater dry. Effective immediately, all showers shall be of moderate duration. There’s no need to shower through another birthday. I simply refuse to serve cake and ice cream under the shower head.
Furthermore, all baths shall be no more than six inches deep. This is not Sea World and you are not dolphins.
To make this whole deal more fun, I resolve that you shall adopt your cousins’ strategy and make a contest out of it. Using their trusty stopwatch, they have set a record of two men racing through the shower and presenting downstairs in their PJs in 2 minutes and 7 seconds. If you want to see your mother speechless for once, beat that.
Lastly, I resolve that Mr. Schrock and his eldest son and heir shall, using their four perfectly good arms, learn to run the washer so that I no longer have to face the firing squad should I forget to launder certain very special garments. This would greatly improve my life expectancy and my stress level. Thank you for cooperating. You may sign right here.”
Disclaimer: As no scratch-n-sniff test was applied to the nephews, their level of cleanliness cannot be verified. At least they got wet, and that’s the point.
Rhonda is a working-from-home mother of four sons, a weekly columnist, and a professional blogger. To read more of her tribal adventures, visit her blog, The Natives are Getting Restless.