This afternoon, Son #4 was in my room, watching TV wearing a spiffy ensemble of long, navy dress pants and a wool crewneck sweater. Which would be fine, if it weren't June, in the northern hemisphere.
He is out of clothes again.
I do laundry just about every day.I clean, dry, fold, and return their clothes to their bedrooms. All Son #4 has to do is put those clothes on his shelves. He rarely does.
So, the clothes end up on the floor, in a pile, and the dog goes in and pisses all over them. Several times a week, I do a load or two of crisply folded, dog-urine-soaked children's clothes. I'll be doing yet another glorious load, this afternoon, thanks to a totally bullshitted "Yes, Ma'am, I Put All My Clothes Away" that I believed, yesterday.
Right now, I am spending the afternoon sitting in Son #4's room, pointing at the things that he needs to clean. I am going to sit here, and point, until the room is clean.
I am hating every minute of it. I need out.
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