I love my children.
I love them even when they borrow my shoes without asking and then hoard said shoes in their room. (At least I know where to look for footwear.)
I love them even when they ask me to find a pair of red sneakers somewhere in the laundryroom—and then it turns out the sneakers are mostly white with the barest hint of red trim and are at the bottom of a pile of papers in the back of the closet in their room.
I love them when they call at 4am to say they’ve locked the keys in the car and could I please do a rescue run—before 5am.
I love them even when they leave dishes and glasses scattered all over the house—despite having learned from an early age how to rinse plates and put them in the dishwasher.
I love them when they forget to tell me that important deadlines are fast approaching—as in NOW!
I love them even when I have to say “No.” Although that is becoming less frequent as they get older.
I love them when—even though they sufficient drawer space—they seem utterly incapable of putting away clean laundry.
I love them when—despite having perfect hearing when it comes to being waited on hand and foot—they are utterly deaf to pleas to help bring in groceries from the car.
Yes, I would like them to figure out how to put away clothes and clear dishes and bring in groceries. But the good news is I watch them being kind, considerate, intelligent, and helpful with other people. And I figure if these are the biggest problems in my world, I’ve got a pretty good life.
But don’t tell my kids.