The Boy has been requesting a small trash can for the bathroom he uses for several months now. (Oh come on, people, it's not like there aren't other waste baskets in the house. The Boy doesn't need any more reasons to think that he's got his own personal suite here, complete with garbage pick-up. You wouldn't want him getting soft now, would you?) But the Mother-of-the-Boy in me just can't stand the thought of her baby having to ascend an entire flight of stairs to dispose of his trash bag into (heaven forbid!) the shared family trash can.
So, last night, I caved. I spent a whole $2. 49 to bring justice and equality to the waste management situation on the Ark.
Then, I set said can at the top of the stairs thinking that the Boy would a) be thrilled to see his new, white, plastic gem and b) carry it down on the way to his room.
Much to my chagrin, this morning when I walked past the door downstairs, I noticed the now infamous can sitting right where I left it and realized that not a single can-requesting teenager had bothered to thank me for it. Gratitude, schmatitude. So, when the other kids found me in the kitchen fixing breakfasts and lunches and mumbling to myself things like, "didn'tevenhaveownbathroomgrowingupletalonecanhadtoshareONEbathroomwithfivepeopledoesn't knowhowluckyheis..." all but Naomi kept their distance.
Me (to the brave Naomi): Did your brother take his new garbage can downstairs yet?
Naomi scurried off and returned a few moments later boldly announcing: Mama, I took it downstairs for him and I told him that he should have taken it down himself last night.
Me (full of righteous indignation): Good! Nice job *bossing* your brother.
Candace (overhearing the conversation, chimed in): Waaaiiitt a minute! Naomi *bossed* the Boy? But that's my job!
Now if I can only keep the union out.