Over the last week or so, I’ve been in full-on spring cleaning/organizing/seriously, why do we still have this? mode. It’s been kind of absurd to see the things that I’ve been holding on to … or, the things that the kids manage to stuff in nooks and crannies that I didn’t even know existed in my house, for a reason that could only make sense in the mind of a toddler. But it’s good – I feel like we got a ton done, got organized, and now we have room for more crap!
The best part, at least initially, was that we weren’t just getting rid of things that we didn’t need. But I also decided to use my frenzied attempt of restoring order to my chaotic house as one of those “teachable moments” that we parents just love (and our kids probably just loathe) to experience. You know, it’s the moment when an every-day occurrence supernaturally presents you with the opportunity to explain the deeper meaning or implication of whatever it is that you’re doing… and, in turn, in a gesture of gratitude to the Powers That Be, you, as the (at least momentarily) wise parent, actually seize the opportunity to spend the extra 30 seconds telling your kid about why whatever it is that you’re doing actually matters in the grand cosmic scope of life instead of skipping the explanation for fear of hearing the question, “why?” 84626484 in response to your well-intended, but obviously unappreciated efforts of broadening the mind of your offspring.
This particular teachable moment: the fine art of recycling.
The end result of this teachable moment: a 3 year-old that was sobbing, dry heaving, and smelled like a drunk.
I have a confession: I’m a half-hearted recycler. And by “half-hearted”, I mean there is absolutely zero heart involved in my recycling efforts. I really couldn’t care less about the products I use being fabricated from 87% post consumer recycled fiber. Captain
I'd never cut it as a Planeteer. Sorry (sort of) Captain Planet.
Planet really does nothing for my otherwise highly-susceptible-to-guilt-trips conscience. The truth is that my trash can is very narrow. Also, I hate with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns, to take out the trash. Actually, it’s less the taking out the trash that I hate. It’s the fact that I can’t seem to remember to put a new trash bag in the can when I get back inside. Consequently, I go to empty a dust pan, or throw away a bunch of apple peels, or egg shells and inevitably, I end up throwing them into a can with no bag in it. And then I cuss myself and the trashcan and have to dig out the dust pan remnants, apple peels or egg shells, put a bag in the can, then try the whole thing over again. Idiotic? Absolutely. But let’s be honest: idiotic is more or less my MO. And this cycle of perpetual trash and subsequent rage never seems to end.
The point of the trash can story is that the things that end up taking up the most space in the very narrow trashcan (resulting in me having to take it out more frequently, starting the perpetual cycle of rage, etc.) also happen to be considered recyclable. Milk jugs, juice bottles, pizza boxes, Diet Dr Pepper cans, beer bottles…
I can fit nothing larger than a stick of butter in this trashcan without having to replace the bag. Infuriating.
essentially, all of the staples of my existence can be recycled at the end of the day. So basically, recycling in my house is me eyeing the trashcan, mentally calculating the cost of throwing away the object in question based upon how quickly it will result in me having to take the trash out. If the answer to that question is ‘any sooner than absolutely necessary’, the item in question goes into recycling! And when I say “it goes into recycling”, I mean I literally throw it into one of three different bins in my garage until they are all so overflowing that when I try to throw something else into them, it bounces off the other contents and shatters all over the garage floor. And that’s my cue for making the arduous 2 and half minute trip down the road to the dump.
After this particular week of cleaning and purging, we had an entire 2000 Ford Explorer full of crap to go dump. I was having one of those moments when I was feeling like a horrible mother because I had spent more time sorting through a bunch of old clothes than I had actually engaging my children. In an attempt to assuage my guilt, I asked Judah if he wanted to go with me and be my helper at the dump. I did this knowing full well that a task that would otherwise take no more than 10 minutes would end up taking closer to an hour, but I was possessed by the need to turn my somewhat maniacal behavior of the last few days into one of those teachable moments that would bring clarity to my son as to why Mommy was throwing everything in the house away. Of course, the idea of a special date with just Mommy and Judah, even if it was to the dump, was enticing to my sweet son, so he put his coat on over his jammies and we got started.
The first step was to try and consolidate three bins of haphazardly tossed recyclables into three bins of like items. Then, we had to break down all of the cardboard boxes. I figured J would probably like jumping on the boxes, so I put him on the task. After spending 15 minutes watching Judah relentlessly try to breakdown a cardboard box that was probably three times the size of his own body, I finally convinced him that Mommy could use her super powers to breakdown the bad-guy box. (Any time I can bring super hero powers into the equation, Judah instantly becomes much more willing to accommodate anything I’m asking of him. “Judah, please put your shoes on” will get me about 15 more minutes of stalling, followed by a complete meltdown because he has momentary amnesia and can’t seem to remember how to pull the velcro over the straps. However, if I say, “Super Judah, I need you to put on your super hero shoes so that we can go save the world!” it results in shoes being put on within about 30 seconds.) The final box was broken down, stuffed into the back of the crammed (and stinky) Explorer, and we were off on our educational and emotionally bonding trip to the dump.
When we got there, J got out of the car and we got started. It was fun to watch how excited he was to get to help. It was also a workout, because he can’t reach high enough to put the trash into the giant compactor, or the recyclables into the correct dumpster. So, Judah would pick up two cans, I’d pick him up, and he’d throw the cans into the dumpster. Over and over and over. And over again. He’s adorable, my son. All 40 lbs of him. And he never lost his excitement every time he got to peek over the ledge of the trash compactor and see how the bags and scraps got smashed flat as pancakes, or how the glass shattered into a million pieces every time he threw a jar into the glass-recycling dumpster. However, my arm muscles (I don’t even know what arm muscles are called, that’s how frequently I work them out) were screaming at me about 30 minutes into the extravaganza. So, I tried to convince him that he could just throw the different things into their appropriate bins without me having to lift him up. We started with the aluminum cans, and it went pretty well. He had to throw each can about 3 times before he actually made it into the giant opening, but he was having a good time, and I was so relieved to see that he could, in fact, get forward motion on an object he was throwing, that I decided to let him keep practicing.
And then we moved onto the glass bottles.
I decided, based upon the hit ratio of the aluminum cans, that we probably shouldn’t try throwing glass bottles into the dumpster. Instead, I told him to stand on his tippy-toes and gently nudge the bottle up the side of the dumpster until it fell into the opening. Round One: Successful. This was the moment that I decided to try and capitalize on the “teachable moment” by telling Judah about how great it was that we were able to recycle these things. Once I started though, I realized that I had no idea why it was so great to be recycling – what difference did it make that we were recycling? And what the devil actually happens to all of this crap that we’ve sorted and have spent the last 30 minutes throwing at dumpsters? I had no answers. So I did what I usually do when I realize mid-sentence that I have no idea what I’m talking about: I made something up ad-libed. I started telling J that it was great that we were able to to recycle these things because there was some magical factory somewhere that would end up taking all of the things he was recycling, melt it all down, and turn it into cat food. Fortunately, I don’t think he heard the part about the cat food because he was too busy crying and dry heaving and throwing himself around like he was on fire.
I'm glad that my son's first taste of beer was one of my favorites. I'm also glad that I was there for the occasion. I just wish that it had happened under more favorable circumstances... and about 18 years later.
Apparently, when I had told J to nudge the bottles into the dumpster, I had neglected to tell him to keep the top of the bottle pointed up. The particular bottle that he was attempting to get into the dumpster had been carelessly tossed into the recycle bin with half of its contents still inside. Tragically, while trying to nudge the bottle into the dumpster, Judah emptied the 4 day old Black and Tan all over himself. It poured into his sleeves, and all over his face and hair. Hence, the flailing around as though he was marinating himself in acid.
After a few minutes of crying hysterically, trying to puke the taste of old beer out of his mouth, and flapping his sleeves in a fashion that left me surprised he didn’t actually take off flying, Judah was finally able to get himself together enough to climb into his carseat while I took care of the rest of the bottles.
There’s a little pub in the historic district of the town that I live in. It’s called the Blarney Stone, and if you’re ever in Virginia and looking for a place to watch the Red Sox play, or hear/be publicly humiliated while singing along with rowdy Irish drinking songs, I recommend going on a night when Wayne Jordan is performing. I can
Some of the best nights I'll never remember happened right here at the Blarney Stone.
guarantee that you will leave with a new appreciation for the plight of the Irish, along with a few new vocabulary words. The point of the matter is that I’ve spent my fair share of nights at the Blarney Stone, making a fool of myself with Wayne, and drinking enough Smithwicks to not care that I’m making a fool of myself with Wayne. However, never, not even on my longest night at the Blarney Stone, have I ever left that pub smelling as badly as my poor son did at this moment. His hair was sticky and he kept trying to wipe his tongue on his hand, which was also covered in old beer. I got him home, and straight into the bath tub. Robert walked into the bathroom to find out why Judah was taking a bath at 10 in the morning. However, before he managed to ask, he stopped mid-sentence, sniffed the bathroom, and instead asked me why Judah smelled drunk.
After this rather traumatizing experience, my hope is two-hold. First, I hope that Judah didn’t hear that bit about the bottles being magically melted down into cat food. Second, I hope that I have saved my son from any potential future as an alcoholic… or at least from a few too many long nights at the Blarney Stone.
