May I Make a Suggestion?

No, this isn’t about my making a suggestion to my children, my husband . . . really, to anyone. 

Let’s give a listen, shall we?

Scene 1:   Oscar, Edgar, and their mother walk from the car into the house.  Their mother–as is often the case this time of year–is distracted by the flora that abounds after significant rain and warming temperatures.  She looks lovingly at the striking hostas that greet them as they walk in the door.

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Mother:  Look at the beautiful hostas.  Aren’t they gorgeous?

Edgar:  Yes, Mommy!

Oscar:  Mommy, did you plant those plants?

Mother (swelling with pride and readying herself for a compliment):  I did.  Do you like them?

Oscar:  They’re nice.  But maybe you didn’t notice . . . there are a few weeds over here (pointing to said weeds).  I think we should try to make our house neater, cleaner, and more beautiful.

ARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!

That was me screaming a little on the inside.  You see, though I know ours is not the house where “you can eat off the floor” or where there is never a single thing out of place, I still think it’s pretty nice–beautiful, in fact.  Built in 1900, and all the wear-and-tear and charm to show for its nearly 110 years in existence, it is full of color, fun, and style (at least I hope).  And, seriously, we try to keep it clean and presentable. 

And the garden?  Well, I am not one to boast–but, Oscar, I’VE WON AWARDS FOR MY GARDENING!!!

Okay, now that that’s off my chest . . . What did I do the next morning, of course?  Pulled the weeds.  And did my boy notice?  Nope. 

I suppose it won’t be long before noticing these little imperfections (which it took me years to accept as part of our collective look) turns into full-fledged embarrassment.  The day will come when the boys will notice that we aren’t like their friends’ parents and will want to be dropped off a block away from where they’re supposed to be for fear someone will see them.

I think I’ll stop pulling the weeds on demand and get ready for this ride.  Something tells me I might be able to have a little fun . . .

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