Mar 28 2008
Are You Committed, Or Just Contributing?
The kids and I differ on these two definitions. To clarify, lets recall the oft-told tale of the chicken, the pig and breakfast: If you’re having bacon, eggs and sausage for Breakfast, who made the contribution and who made the commitment? Well, they both contributed, but I think the pig is definitely committed.
This subject comes up during clean up time. The picture above is of a “pillow house”. They randomly appear in the den from time to time; sometimes with the knowledge and blessing of NukeDad and NukeMom, but usually not. Their construction requires the use of pillows (obviously) of all sizes and shapes, and depending on their size and scope, may require a trip upstairs. They need structure and support, so the use of “the little table” is often employed, as are end tables, rocking chairs, TV floor chairs and V-rockers.
Construction of these domiciles is generally fast and furious, much like Donald Trump’s development of the lower west side of Manhattan. Once the structure is complete and the “roof” (whichever blanket is left) has been installed, the habitation begins. There are secret doors, mailboxes, peek-a-boo floor level windows; you name it, it’s in there. The euphoria of living in a self built abode lasts all the way till dinner time, or whenever Spongebob is over, whichever comes first.
After dinner, when it comes time to clean-up, the conflict begins. They become squatters. We’d have better luck clearing the Gaza Strip of rocket launchers than getting our pillows returned to their beds. “Nukegirl! I told you that after dinner you and Nukeboy2 would have to clean this up!” “I know Daddy, but my legs hurt.” She did it. She played the ouchie card. I’d seen this tactic before, and if I survived the Great Disco Scare Of The Late 70’s, then I could make it through this. “Well, you can soak in the tub when you get done.” “But Daddy”, she said “they hurt right now! In real life!” She wrongly assumed that my line between reality and fantasy was as blurred as hers was. It wasn’t working. “Just do it, Nukegirl.” With a pouty lip and a feigned limp she hopped over to the couch and put one of the pillows back in it’s place. That was her contribution.
Nukeboy2 was committed. By the time Nukegirl and I had finished our verbal volley, he already had bed pillows returned upstairs, and most of the downstairs pillows and blankets in their proper places. The only thing left was 1 couch pillow. Nukegirl sauntered over, picked it up and with a look of disgust said to her brother: “How come I always have to do EVERYTHING? You NEVER help.” Nukeboy2 thought better of retaliation. He’d rather be a pig than be called chicken any day.
