On Screwing Myself

So, yeah, there's a picture of a trash bag on my blog.  I'm sure you're clicking away to a decent blog all, "WTF, yo?  Are you too lazy to take your trash out?"  Yes, not relevant, though. "Are you waiting for The Donor to take it out?"  Double true, it's a boy's job, also not important right now.

I've been hanging on to that bag for almost a week now.  I kept it in the trash can for as long as it would fit, and then sat it there and have stared at it for more nights than are appropriate.

See, I am a terrible mother.  I have absolutely no follow-through with my kids.  Now that they're old enough to actually get right from wrong, now that they've had it proven to them that I am a mean old bitch when I have to be, now that I'm past those years of constant discipline and re-directing and explanation, I've just stopped doing any of those things at all ever.

(Yes, I am aware that there's another small child still in the house.  God help her husband.)

My 8 year old has taken up a new habit...roller-blading in the house.  Which really doesn't bother me all that much, except when it drives me absolutely bat-shit crazy.  I have told that kid 8 million times to stop it.  I have explained that the floors will scratch, and they're stupid laminate wood that can't really be fixed (asshole floors) and I have threatened him over and over and over with the eternal loss of, and possible damnation of, his dear roller-blades if he doesn't knock that crap off already.  But I haven't actually done anything about it just yet.

So when he came skating out of the dining room last week with that "I'm so cute, and my gramma's right there on the couch so you can't kill me" look, my head exploded.  But, well, gramma was right there, so I did the only thing I could that didn't involved pea soup and/or pitchforks; I grabbed his shoulder and in my veryvery low, quiet voice, said, "Take them off and put them in the trash.  NOW."

Oh, the screaming.  The weeping.  The gnashing of teeth.  He threw them out, ran to his room, screamed like a hellish banshee for exactly one hour, and then all was right with the world again.  Except that I forgot about one little thing later that day.

Have you ever made your kid throw his favorite X out? The first rule of Trash Can Parenting: Take the thing OUT of the trash while they're in their room freaking the fuck out.  I totally forgot about the roller blades for two full days.  That's two days with no garbage disposal, two nights of a kid who still wears a diaper to bed, three filters full of coffee grinds (desperate times, yo).

By the time I remembered them, I was screwed.  If I dig them out, I'll A) puke, B) have to sanitize them every day while he's at school for the next decade and C) puke.  They were old anyway; he could use a new pair, for sure.  But it worked; he got my point.  AND he said he was saving up for a new pair already, which mean he's got a work ethic and I can MAKE HIM DO MORE CHORES.

If I don't dig them out, I'll have to buy another goddamn pair of stupid roller-blades.  Why on EARTH would I drop $100 when I could spend $5 on vinegar and Lysol?  Besides, the point has been made.  I can't go back now or the kid will realize I've pulled them out of the trash, and he's just old enough to never forget that, hence losing me my most awesome discipline strategy ever.

And so, there the bag sits night after night as I negotiate with it.  Thankfully, I'm sort of getting used to the smell.  Maybe he'll just see them through the bag and grab them when I'm "not looking", or maybe someone could just come over and throw it out for me?  I am clearly too cheap to do it myself.