Belonging
According to me (and it should always be about me, no?), items in our home have their places. For example, we don't have end tables, so in order to always know where the remote controls for the television and Wii are, I place them on the TV table. On the corner. In plain view for everyone to know where they are. Amazingly, every morning, I find them elsewhere: perched on the coffee table, lounging on the computer table, or snoozing in between the cushions of the couch. It's no surprise then, when I hear someone mutter, "Where is the remote?" You know my answer. "If you'd have put it back where it belongs, you'd know where it is."
We hear that often around here. Or maybe I just hear it in my head, because I find myself whispering that for much of the day. Just yesterday, Aaron asked me, "Where's the gold duct tape?" Mind you, this is the tape he'd been using for much of the day in his attempt to fashion a spear. (Which he did. It's a very awesome spear, too, made out of cardboard, of course. See why a cardboard coffin makes sense?) I had to scratch my head. Where could the poor child have put the tape? I knew that I didn't put it away, and much to the disappointment of the kids, I knew it hadn't put itself away. Thankfully, it was time for Aaron to go to bed. He must have been tired, for he didn't argue when I said I'd look for it. He simply asked, "Can you put it on the piano?" and then got ready for bed.
His question, though, brings me back to the topic at hand. Why put the duct tape on the piano? Why not put it in the tape bin? We actually have one of those on the first level, in the room we now call the study. We also have a box full of just duct tape (well, it might be close to empty now, since it is the end of the summer, and we've had a cooler than average one) in the basement. Why not just ask me to put the tape back where it belongs?
I think it's because Aaron (and the rest of the folks that inhabit this place) don't really know where things belong. If they think long and hard enough about it, or take the time to look around, they can see bins, and bookshelves, and drawers with spaces for toys, books, and other objects of desire. But despite my attempt at order, if I left for a few weeks, I'm convinced I'd come back to a house riddled with chaos.
What the kids and Tim don't understand, is that chaos lives on a slippery slope, and it all starts with one remote control.
Put that remote back where it belongs, will ya?
We hear that often around here. Or maybe I just hear it in my head, because I find myself whispering that for much of the day. Just yesterday, Aaron asked me, "Where's the gold duct tape?" Mind you, this is the tape he'd been using for much of the day in his attempt to fashion a spear. (Which he did. It's a very awesome spear, too, made out of cardboard, of course. See why a cardboard coffin makes sense?) I had to scratch my head. Where could the poor child have put the tape? I knew that I didn't put it away, and much to the disappointment of the kids, I knew it hadn't put itself away. Thankfully, it was time for Aaron to go to bed. He must have been tired, for he didn't argue when I said I'd look for it. He simply asked, "Can you put it on the piano?" and then got ready for bed.
His question, though, brings me back to the topic at hand. Why put the duct tape on the piano? Why not put it in the tape bin? We actually have one of those on the first level, in the room we now call the study. We also have a box full of just duct tape (well, it might be close to empty now, since it is the end of the summer, and we've had a cooler than average one) in the basement. Why not just ask me to put the tape back where it belongs?
I think it's because Aaron (and the rest of the folks that inhabit this place) don't really know where things belong. If they think long and hard enough about it, or take the time to look around, they can see bins, and bookshelves, and drawers with spaces for toys, books, and other objects of desire. But despite my attempt at order, if I left for a few weeks, I'm convinced I'd come back to a house riddled with chaos.
What the kids and Tim don't understand, is that chaos lives on a slippery slope, and it all starts with one remote control.
Put that remote back where it belongs, will ya?
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