*Actually he happens to be going through lots of very irritating phases* but this is the one I'm blogging about today.
*Good Lord I hope they're just phases.
Colin is going through a "but it's not my mess!" phase lately. Case in point: this morning after breakfast, Cameron was the first to put his cereal bowl in the dishwasher, but he left his spoon on the table. So when Colin went to put his bowl in the dishwasher, I said, "Hey Colin. Will you please put that other spoon in there when you go?"
He acted like I'd said, "Hey Colin. I'm going to let your little brothers trash the joint and then make you clean it up all by yourself. Bwahahahaha!"
"But it's not my spoon!" he whined in protest.
Seriously? It's a spoon. A spoon. And he was going to the dishwasher anyway. Much like that fruit snack package on the floor, that he happened to be walking past, that I asked him to pick up. Or the Wii remote that I asked him to put back in its basket, and he initially refused because this is the player two remote and I was player onnnnne! Not exactly unreasonable requests, right? Yet it's always the same these days: "But it's not mine!" And I end up snapping at him because it's ridiculous, and he ends up picking up whatever it is and then stomping around with an attitude. Ugh.
The other day I'd had enough and went off. "Do you realize how many messes I clean up that aren't mine?" I snarked. "I spend my whole day cleaning up messes that aren't mine. Practically my whole life right now is devoted to cleaning up messes that I didn't make!"
That seemed to get through to him a little bit at the time. But obviously it didn't have much of an effect on him because, you know, the spoon.
Anyway, since I can't figure out a good way to remedy the situation except to just hang on and hope he grows out of it, I've written a little poem. Because as y'all know if you've been around for a while, I like writing little poems. (View my other poetic masterpieces about cosleeping, Thanksgiving, vacuums, birth control, blogging, and my face by clicking on these respective links. You're welcome.)
Plus a bonus haiku that I didn't write, but totally wish I would've.
So here goes.
It's not my mess; I didn't do it.
So whoever made it had better tend to it.
You there, little infant, you've soiled yourself -
The diapers and wipes are up on the shelf.
Hey weak-stomached cat who barfed up your food -
I sure hope you're good with a paper towel, dude.
And yo, toddler, who "missed" and crapped on the floor -
Use the germ-killing wipes, they're right there in that drawer.
By the way, family? From now on I propose
That you all should wash dry fold and hang your own clothes.
I'm not doing your dishes or wiping your tracks,
Or sweeping the crumbs left behind by your snacks.
Not cleaning the windows smudged up by your fingers
Or ridding your bathroom of the odor that lingers.
Or scrubbing your bathtub, or the crayon on your door,
Or mopping the juice that you spilled on the floor.
It isn't my mess, so why should I do it?
It's not cleaning itself - I suggest you get to it.