Dirty Jeans

“Mom, there's a stain on my jeans because Dana dropped pizza on my leg at the mall. They're my favorite jeans and I want to wear them to school tomorrow so could you wash them tonight”? At sixteen years old you would think she could learn to wash a pair of pants instead of giving me another chore on top of the five other chores I have to do before bed. It's my fault I suppose, for not teaching her to be more responsible. The truth is, it's usually just easier to do it myself than to end up in an argument that can't be won. Her older brother has the attitude that he would die trying to do something himself before he would admit that he needs help. I think that because he has been raised by a single mom, he feels that as the man of the house he should be self-sufficient, brave, and strong. I sometimes call it being hard-headed and stubborn because he doesn't realize that by not asking for help and doing something incorrectly, it causes more work for me when I have to redo whatever task he attempted. Teenagers are difficult to deal with. They try so hard to convince you that they are grown up but still act like children at the same time.

I go downstairs to wash the ever-important jeans but get sidetracked by the dog food nuggets scattered all over the kitchen floor. “What happened here”, I asked? yelling into the family room where the two were watching television.

“I dropped the bag when I fed Roscoe”, my son yelled back. “He will clean it up”.

I wanted to rant but I instead grabbed the broom and dustpan and cleaned up the mess as thoughts of running away to a tropical island went through my head. Oh, to be laying on a beach in the warm sun with a tropical drink in my hand and no one to clean up after, I thought. How different my life might have been if I had gone on to college and had a high paying career instead of getting married right out of high school and having two kids by the time I was thirty. Not to mention raising them alone because my husband decided to follow the dreams inside his head and leave as though his family never existed.

I shook the bitter thoughts out of my mind and went into the laundry room to wash the jeans as I started to do before. Just as I reach for the detergent, the doorbell rings. I paused for a moment assuming someone would answer the door but hearing the bell ring a second time reminded me that I may as well be living alone. I go and answer the door to find one of our neighbors standing there with a hateful look on his face and our dog on a leash at his side. I apologized for Roscoe being at his home and took the dog into the family room wanting an explanation.

“I was going to walk him”, my son said as he shrugged his shoulders. “He took off so fast that he yanked the leash out of my hand. He always comes back home before too long”. Then his attention went back to the television as the dog jumped on the sofa beside my daughter. Both of them were oblivious to the muddy dog prints on the carpet and sofa. I decided it would be better for me to turn and leave the room instead of saying things I didn't mean and starting an all-out war.

At this point, I am tossing clothes into the washing machine and mumbling like a crazy person about how things in this house were going to change. I was listing the changes out loud as though I were rehearsing a speech that I would never end up giving anyway, and feeling my blood pressure rising with each word. I reached down and picked up the jeans that started the whole mess that evening and I just stopped. As I stood there looking at the tomato stained denim in my hand, tears began to stream down my cheeks. Instead of seeing a pair of size six overpriced jeans, I saw the little carrot stained romper she wore as a baby. My mind was filled with memories of their childhood and the moments we had together. All of the birthdays, every Christmas we spent baking cookies and seeing their happy faces as they opened their gifts. I remembered how special it was every Mother's Day to open my gifts and get excited over the macaroni pictures they had made or the little notes that said “I love you mommy” in crayon. I could almost feel their little arms around my neck when I remembered the hugs they would so freely give me on a daily basis. Then it hit me just how fast the time had gone. Those two beautiful babies from yesterday were now sitting on the sofa ignoring me and would be moving out sooner than I cared to admit to myself. How I wished I could go back to those days when their faces lit up when I walked into the room.

I felt foolish for the anger I had felt that evening. How could I be angry because I was cleaning up after my two babies? I knew then that in the blink of an eye, instead of being alone on a tropical beach, I would soon be muddling around an empty house. No one needing my help and no one making a mess for me to clean up. That thought made my heart as heavy as lead. Never again did I get angry or fuss when there was another chore to do.

I am so happy that my daughter caused me to do that load of laundry that evening. It made me so thankful for every single moment I spent doing things for my children. I even feel almost grateful that their father left and I didn't have to share their affection with anyone. Now, it's my face that lights up when I hear the front door open and my grandchildren come running in with big hugs for grandma. Whenever I see my children getting upset over a spilled drink or a broken lamp, I simply give them my best piece of advice, cherish every pair of dirty jeans.