I'm a fan of Faye HeavyShield

It’s a beautiful day. My mother in law tells me they are practically snowed in up in Edmonton and here I am planting broccoli seeds on my patio. I’ve become a little paranoid of my worm compost ever since hearing other’s troubles keeping the little guys alive. I was told that the ideal spot for the container is inside but if you saw the size of our home you would understand why this isn’t an option – unless we used it as a coffee table… but there isn’t room for a coffee table in here.

I think the guys will just be a little slower right now since it’s still a little breezy and when it heats up we’ll move them to the front porch. Of course, this means other things from the front porch will have to be moved.

For someone who is absolutely terrified of a clutter, I certainly have my work cut out for me. What you may think is a few pieces of mail become a mountain of paper work in relation to this place. Last week, the toys seemed to be collecting too high for my unhinged minimalist brain and so I collected what I thought was a variety of things Franklin no longer plays with.

Yikes.
What a mistake.
I think I may turn my child into a pack-rat if I keep this up. It will be his ultimate form of rebellion, saving every essay and kinder surprise he has ever created. If he starts to collect the junk mail I will have to ask him to move out.

I took back the work bench. I say “took back” because we got it from Value Village (where 99% of our toys come from) and back to the big V.V. it went. He hadn’t played with it for a long time. Honestly! I couldn’t remember the last time he played with it.

What did he want to play with last night?
Yes, the work bench.
He had his construction hat on, his tool belt and suspenders fastened and all the hammers, pliers, calipers and wrenches a guy could wish for stuck in all the right pockets. But where, oh where was the work bench?

Although Franklin is easily distracted like every other kid his age, once he’s into something, his power of concentration is a mighty force. There was no substitution for his work bench. The work bench was essential. ESSENTIAL

Mother guilt, anyone?
Jeez.

So, I explained to him that I had made a mistake and that I thought he no longer used the work bench. I told him that I was wrong to not to ask him first and that I would never do that again. He wasn’t in hysterics but the three of us had had a sufficiently horrible enough day that this seemed to be the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Poor camel.

He had the following solution though:
So Mom? You need to go to Value Village and get my work bench back.

Sigh.
So I did. I went back. I was wrong. I wanted to make it right – I wanted at least one bloody thing to go right that day. I trudged back to Value Village and asked the nice lady with a thousand scarves in her hair (just because they are there, do you have o wear them all at once?) if there was a way to retrieve something that had been dropped off last Sunday.

Apparently, this is a common thing.
Apparently, there is someone whose job is actually to deal with this.
I’m so happy I’m not the only tool in the work bench (groan). However, I have to return during the day (later today) and I’m sure this person will be expecting me to ask for a watch, or a leather jacket, or an appliance – not a plastic work bench that has all of its parts missing and legs no longer extend.

This morning, I was going through the toys to find a train part and I asked Franklin if there was anything he’d like to get rid of… perhaps send to Value Village for another child to play with?

My little 45 year old man replied,

“Thanks for asking first, Mom.
We can give them Mike the Milk truck. I don’t like his singing.”

This mother thing isn’t getting any easier but at least he is well aware I’m not perfect.