A few years ago I realized I was completely over taking recyclable bottles, cans, and papers from their pile on our kitchen counter to our bin outside. I only have one life to live and I don't want to spend it moving other people's trash from Point A to Point B. There was never supposed to be a pile anyway. In my domestic fantasy everyone would walk each recyclable to the outdoor bin as soon they were finished using them. There would be no counter top layover. This almost never happened and so one day I proclaimed, "I'm not buying anything in a bottle or can ever again!"
Multiple meltdowns followed my decree and then Enzo came up with a plan to keep soda flowing into our home while keeping the mess under control. Enzo proposed an indoor recycling bin. I agreed to this under one condition; the recycling was now Enzo's responsibility.
This was the very first real, regular chore any of our children had ever had and I felt that because he had been the mastermind behind this plan, Enzo would take real pride in this task. It turns out chores are chores no matter who dreams them up and they are always on the very bottom of a child's priority list.
Today is Tuesday. Tuesday is the eve of the best day of the week in Chatham Village. Tuesday is the day The Village People bring their trash bags and recycling bins out to the curb to be magically hauled away by a team of miracle workers at some point during the day on Wednesday.
Last Tuesday I gently reminded Enzo of the arrival of the sacred day and he assured me he would bring the bins out front, "later". True to his word he managed to get them out front today, a week "later". This became a two bin, stuffed to the brink of explosion, ordeal, because despite my best efforts, eight people make a LOT of waste. The bins were so full when he dragged them out front that Enzo stood looking over the indoor bin this afternoon and asked, "What should I do? This bin is full but there is no place to put the stuff".
I fought my know-it-all/helicopter urge and responded with, "Do you have any ideas?"
"We could leave it here and just throw the recyclables in the trash can until tomorrow when the big bins are empty again".
At this point it became difficult for me to breathe. The room spun around my head and I think my heart might have stopped. What was he saying? Was he insane? Had he even tried to imagine the outcome of choosing this path? Wasn't he even a little bit afraid that Greta Thunberg would somehow find out about his diabolical plan and come flying in here, braids a swingin', ready to thunder punch his scrawny ass right into our compost pile?
I'm pleased with myself. I managed to keep my mouth shut. I figured it was best to let him do things his way and learn from the natural consequences of his actions. But mark my words, this is between him and Greta. I'm not taking any punches for him. He is very nearly a man now. He can fight his own fights and sort his trash as he pleases. I can't protect him forever.
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