My daughter was amazing. Drop‑dead gorgeous from birth. She was brilliant too — her brain easily matched her brother Ben’s. Their conversations were exhausting; sometimes I’d have to remember a word they used and look it up later because I wasn’t entirely sure what it meant.
I kept a very clean house. Rowan still couldn’t walk, so he scooted everywhere on his butt. Like a little broom, he’d sweep up anything on the floor, and his pants would be filthy if I didn’t constantly vacuum and mop. Our rented house had a huge playroom with built‑in toy boxes and shelves. Everything had a place — and that place was out of Rowan’s reach. Once he got hold of something, he never gave it back. Both older kids helped me clean every Saturday, so they knew my standards. Avery, however, did not believe those standards applied to her room.
Her “don’t touch anything, I know where everything is” attitude made me crazy. But remembering what my parents did to my room if it wasn’t up to their military standards, I closed my eyes and let her be. She followed the no‑food‑upstairs rule after the day she saw a mouse in her room eating the cookies she’d been hoarding from Ben.
Time went by, and every request to clean her room was met with a snarky “I did.” She kept her door shut so her belongings didn’t spill into the hallway. When they did, I collected them. I had trash bags in the basement full of things she’d forgotten she even owned. Each week she’d bring down a basket of clothes for me to wash. I’d wash, dry, fold, and return them. I assumed she put them away. Nope. Not even close. She dumped them in a pile on the floor. I decided to choose my battles.
One day I got angry when I saw the basket she brought down — everything was still folded. It was last week’s laundry. I took the basket upstairs and walked into her room.
It was a disaster. It looked like an explosion had gone off. Not an inch of floor was visible. Clothes and belongings everywhere. Her drawers and closet were empty. I asked how she knew what was clean and what was dirty. Her reply: “Duh, Mom, I smell them first.”
I snapped. I went downstairs, grabbed several trash bags, and handed them to her. She had two choices: clean it up or fill the bags and I’d throw them out.
An hour later, Avery came downstairs, dropped four full trash bags on the floor, and announced she didn’t need any of it — she’d start fresh.
Still standing, I’ll never look at a trash bag the same way now,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 