Dear Family: Pick Up Your Own Stuff, I’m Done

Dear Family,

I love you.

For my kids, I loved your little baby feet and your bigger, stinky feet now.

For my husband, I love your warm, strong arms and the way you throw your leg over me when we sleep.

I even love the adorable socks that cover those kid feet and the undershirt that smells just like you, my precious hubs.

There is, though, something I don’t love and never will. There is something that I’m in fact totally and completely fed up with.

That something , dear family, is picking up all of your socks and shirts and other things from all over the house all of the time.

Pick up your own stuff. I’m done.

Maybe you, my husband and kids, went to a different type of school than me. Maybe while I was learning my letters in preschool, you were learning how to leave fruit snack wrappers under couch cushions. Perhaps teachers these days have abandoned numbers, and are instead teaching kids to leave their underwear inside their jeans in a pile on the bathroom floor. But I have worked to teach you better than that, kids. You didn’t learn those tricks from me.

I don’t know where to begin with you, my beloved husband. I’m not your mama. I can only plead with you so many times to please put your clothes in your laundry hampers and your hampers in your closet. I can only endure being called a nag so many times for making these simple requests.

You seem to have the misguided belief that magical little fairies will dispose of the candy wrappers that litter your nightstand, and the empty plates and glasses on the coffee table.

I don’t know how to break this news to you, but no one but you is going to unpack your suitcase from that trip a couple of months back. Although the still-packed suitcase is a stunning addition to our bedroom floor, unpacking and putting the suitcase away would only take a few minutes. I did unpack the kids’ and my suitcase the day we returned from vacation, after all.

I totally appreciate your optimism, Babe, but that lunch meat left on the counter after you made our son’s lunch isn’t going to grow legs and walk back into the fridge.

You are the most fantastic husband, and you make me so happy. You cook all of us the best meals, and handle the finances. But please, please, pick up your crap.

And you, my awesome kids, who have made me the luckiest mom on the planet.

I have things I want to do. Like relaxing once in awhile. I don’t want to spend every spare second begging you to clean up your rooms. We all know that you “cleaning your room” is really just me asking you to pick up your toys 15 times before I lose my cool and clean your rooms myself.

Your bathroom is truly a sight to behold, with toothpaste smeared all over the sink and counter, and little bath toys and dolls everywhere.

It would be so nice if when you finish your meal, you could clear your plates and silverware without me bribing you.

And for my entire family, if you see a pile of clothes, toys or toiletries just bought from the store at the bottom of the stairs, it’s not there for the fun of it. That stuff is waiting to go upstairs. Feel free at any point to avoid stepping over it and grab a handful yourselves.

That should about cover it. I’m just plain sick of cleaning up after you all everyday.

I love you, but not your crap left everywhere. I’m done. Pick up your own stuff.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go clean your rooms.

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