The Fork that Broke Me

What do the smart people say is the hardest material on Earth?
When I was a kid, I’m pretty sure the answer was diamonds.

Whatever it is, it doesn’t hold a candle to the sheer, thickheaded, stubborn, rage-inducing, gasoline-on-a-fire skull of my boy, Noah.

About three weeks ago, I finally took heed of my girls’ constant complaints that Noah does not, in fact, pull his weight around the house. Now, I’m not saying Miriam and I are neat freaks—but anyone who’s stepped foot in our house knows we run a tight ship. We have three girls and roughly sixteen personalities crammed into our one son. If we don’t hold the line, it gets ugly fast. Quickly.

So yes, kids have chores.
No, I am not doing their laundry.
Heck no.

The girls have been doing their own laundry since they were eight.

You think me or Miriam are cooking and washing dishes every day?
Negative, Ghost Rider.

The girls are expert plate cleaners (ehh… Ziva is a little sus), and girl knows the basics of operating a stove and frying pan—some better than others (again, Z is the… experimentor).

I digress.

The girls never miss an opportunity to remind me that His Royal Highness contributes exactly nothing to the family. And since I foresee a day when all the girls will be gone and it’ll just be me, Miriam, and Poopypants, I decided it was time to set my jaw, square my shoulders, and repeatedly slam my head against the brick wall that is Noah’s stubbornness.

We started with post-meal cleanup.

Now Noah takes the plates, rinses them, and puts them in their APPROPRIATE place in the dishwasher. Maybe I’m a little crazy, but with a family of six, you have to maximize every square inch of dishwasher real estate. No wasted space. None.

And since Noah does best with structure and zero deviation in his daily routine, we’ve assigned specific places: spoons here, forks here, knives over there. That way, every single day, everything is placed exactly where it’s supposed to be.

Today, there was a fork upside down in the wrong section of the dishwasher.

Again, consistency matters. Deviation from the norm is his kryptonite.

We both looked at the offending fork. We both knew it was wrong.

“Done, Pop Shane,” Noah announced, splaying his fingers out in front of him, carefully making sure none of the gross food particles tubby little digits touched any other part of his body—which is hilarious, because this is the same kid who will literally retrieve a wet turd that falls out of his diaper during a diaper change and toss it into the toilet.

Please, make it make sense.

“Negative,” I replied, wrinkling my eyebrows in fake confusion. I pointed at the fork. “You and I both know that doesn’t belong there.”

Cue the ‘Downs’ stare of confusion (which BTW is completely fabricated; he knows exactly what I mean).

I pointed again.

“Oh,” Noah grunted—and promptly grabbed the spoon next to the fork and pulled it out.

“No! Stop, dude!” My voice rose in perfect sync with my blood pressure. “Stop. Not that one.” I pointed again. “That one.”

He put the spoon back… then grabbed the other friggin’ spoon beside the fork.

My eyes bulged. My nostrils flared. My fingers began curling into claws.

“NO,” I growled, heat really starting to seep into my voice. “Not that one. That one.”

I grabbed his hand and he dropped the spoon. With my hand over his, we grabbed the fork that had sparked this entire confrontation and pulled it out together.

I released his hand.

The fork lasted all of two seconds before it was back in the holder and he grabbed the spoon again.

I cannot adequately describe the sound that escaped my throat. If I were a cartoon character, my head would’ve exploded, sending a mushroom cloud soaring into the heavens. And apparently, despite how obtuse Noah likes to pretend to be, he picked up on my not-quite nonverbal verbal cues. Three rapid-fire “sorry-sorry-sorry’s!” later, he picked up the fork, flipped it right side up, and placed it where it belonged.

Please understand: this may have taken you three minutes to read, but I stood next to him for sixteen minutes as he lazily rinsed and loaded dishes and utensils. This isn’t the first time we’ve waltzed through this dance. We do this every night.

It is painful.
It is like nails on a chalkboard.
(Which, for me, is quite torturous—I shudder whenever a fork squeaks across a plate. Ugh!)

But despite the misery of the here and now, I know—pray—hope—that one day, it will pay off.

Please just remember to come visit me if I ever end up wearing that orange jumpsuit every day.

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