Many times a day, I ask Mark to complete household tasks. I am very specific in these requests, leaving no room for confusion.
"Put your dishes in the dishwasher" becomes "Please take that glass to the sink, rinse it out, put it in the dishwasher, then close the dishwasher." "Take a shower" becomes "Take a shower, wash with soap, shampoo your hair, dry your body with a towel, pick your clothes up off the floor, and clean up the bathroom when you're done."
Because I go in to this level of detail, I've been accused of micro-managing Mark. I'm not trying to micro-manage him--I just want him to put his damn dishes in the dishwasher without me asking him 50 times in a row.
But because the micro-manager accusation stung a little, I've tried to back off. I dropped Mark off at a Boy Scout meeting the other day 15 minutes early and reminded him to go pick up the merit badge booklets he'd need for camp the next day.
What I thought as I dropped him off was this: "Please pick up the books. All of the books. Every last one on the list, even if you don't think you need it (you DO need it). They're in the back of the gym, by the door. Pick them up tonight. Keep them with you during the meeting. Remember to bring them home, then remember to take the appropriate books to camp tomorrow. Please remember to do all of this, because there will not be another opportunity to get the books before camp."
But I bit my tongue. Instead of saying all that, I just said: "Don't forget your merit badge books."
Mark sighed a big, dramatic sigh, rolled his eyes disgustedly in the way that only pre-teens can, slammed the door and called back, "I WILL. Geez..." Then he stomped away.
He was waiting outside when I returned an hour later, hands completely empty. This time, I let out the dramatic sigh.
"You've got the books?" I asked casually, as he climbed in to the car.
"Oh, they weren't there," he said. "The kid didn't bring them today."
I was staring out the windshield while he said this, and as the words came out of his mouth, a boy walked directly in front of the car. He was dragging along two wheeled milk crates full of..you guessed it...merit badge books.
I wanted to point this out to Mark in a calm, even voice, and remark on the irony of his statement. But before I could help it, I reverted to Micro-Manager Mom and screeched, "THEY'RE RIGHT THERE!"
Mark, in his usual form, started to argue with me, but I stopped him short.
"Books," I yelled. "Now! Go!"
Because I go in to this level of detail, I've been accused of micro-managing Mark. I'm not trying to micro-manage him--I just want him to put his damn dishes in the dishwasher without me asking him 50 times in a row.
But because the micro-manager accusation stung a little, I've tried to back off. I dropped Mark off at a Boy Scout meeting the other day 15 minutes early and reminded him to go pick up the merit badge booklets he'd need for camp the next day.
What I thought as I dropped him off was this: "Please pick up the books. All of the books. Every last one on the list, even if you don't think you need it (you DO need it). They're in the back of the gym, by the door. Pick them up tonight. Keep them with you during the meeting. Remember to bring them home, then remember to take the appropriate books to camp tomorrow. Please remember to do all of this, because there will not be another opportunity to get the books before camp."
But I bit my tongue. Instead of saying all that, I just said: "Don't forget your merit badge books."
Mark sighed a big, dramatic sigh, rolled his eyes disgustedly in the way that only pre-teens can, slammed the door and called back, "I WILL. Geez..." Then he stomped away.
He was waiting outside when I returned an hour later, hands completely empty. This time, I let out the dramatic sigh.
"You've got the books?" I asked casually, as he climbed in to the car.
"Oh, they weren't there," he said. "The kid didn't bring them today."
I was staring out the windshield while he said this, and as the words came out of his mouth, a boy walked directly in front of the car. He was dragging along two wheeled milk crates full of..you guessed it...merit badge books.
I wanted to point this out to Mark in a calm, even voice, and remark on the irony of his statement. But before I could help it, I reverted to Micro-Manager Mom and screeched, "THEY'RE RIGHT THERE!"
Mark, in his usual form, started to argue with me, but I stopped him short.
"Books," I yelled. "Now! Go!"
And so he did. He jumped out of the car and raced toward the kid. Whose mother was not happy to wait while Mark searched the stacks for the 17 different books he needed.She reminded him the books were at every meeting in the back of the room. He opened his mouth to tell her he didn't know that, but he saw the look on my face and wisely shut his mouth.
Maybe I do micro-manage. Maybe it is too much--it's certainly too much for me. But there's a reason I do it, as Mark proves time after time. I'd much rather spend my time (and words) on more interesting subjects or discussions, but for now, this is my life.
So please, if I ask you to do something very specific (such as go to dinner. At 6:15. At E.J. Malloy's. On the patio. At a table. By the heater. After you've washed your hands and tested your blood sugar. And wiped the blood on a napkin, not licked it off your finger. And stop sighing, because yes, this is annoying the heck out of me, too.), don't judge me too harshly.
I don't think you're an idiot who can't follow directions. I just have a 12-year-old at home who only listens to every other word I say, and only if those words are "candy," "cookies," or "Wii."
Which is probably why one of my favorite words also has the word micro in it it--micro-brewery. Trust me, there's a direct correlation there.
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