February 19, 2009

Smart Boy

Yesterday I spent most of the day writing my grandma's obituary while my aunt sat across the table from me going through old photos and letters we'd taken from my grandma's house. Dirty dishes filled the counter top and just below them, on the floor, were five boxes with the names of my aunts and uncles in bright red pen, scribbled on the front. The table overflowed with pictures and papers and photo albums, the recycling bin and garbage overflowed with--what else? Recycling and garbage.

When I had finally finished writing the obituary and started to make dinner (around 9 p.m.) I was feeling a little peeved. Warren had come home and gone straight to the office to transfer some video footage to DVD for my aunt. (Yes, I know it was nice of him. But what about me?! What about making dinner for Jerry so I don't have to do it!? What about me? Me? Me?) Jerry had been doing his own thing all day. I'd asked him to take out the recycling a couple times in the last day or so (it's his one and only ""job" at home) but it was getting fuller by the hour and he seemed to have no intention of getting anywhere near it. Normally this is not a big deal. But yesterday--well, the stress was getting to me.

Just as I was starting to wash dishes and make dinner (after wondering aloud if it was really necessary to feed a kid three times a day--shouldn't two be enough?) I asked him to take out the recycling again. Jerry complained. I took a deep breath.

Trying to remain calm (because it's really not a big deal), I said, "I'm starting to feel really bitter becau--."

"Okay. I'll do it," he said. My voice had gone up and octave on the "because." I was winding up for a meltdown but Jerry caught on. He went straight to the recycling bin with a speed he usually reserves for the walk from the car to Game Stop and took out the recycling .

He's a smart boy, that one.

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