Big Balls

by Steve

My son has this big red ball. He loves plying with it on the stairs. He’ll throw it up the stairs and try to punch it back up when it comes bouncing down. He’ll drop it down the stairs trying to nail me as I walk by. His timing is getting pretty good. It’s harmless, he’s having fun, but he never puts the damn ball away.

Recently, somewhere in the dark part of my mind, I decided that I’d asked him enough times to put the ball away. I picked up this ball and walked to the back door. My kids were a few feet away watching TV. They were on the couch. All of the couch cushions were on the floor, with everything else that my children touch. I opened the door quietly, and without stepping a foot outside, I drop kicked the ball through the door. It sailed over the pool, out of the yard and into the woods. Now, I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I did measure it. It was a little over 40 yards.

I attribute it to the follow through. Yoga hasn’t made me as calm and balanced as I’d have hoped, but it has made my hamstrings mighty flexible.

The effect on the kids was, of course, shock and awe. I know that not every statement has to have an exclamation point on it, but it’s what I was going for at the time.

As they stared at each other, afraid to speak, I wondered, “When the hell did I start to care about a clean house?” Even more, why in the world do I expect my kids to want to keep it clean?

I can still remember some parts of my childhood, and I know for a fact, I didn’t give a hoot that “everything had an away place.” The away place for my X-Wing Fighter was wherever I was standing when my attention was diverted by my Evil Kneavil d… action figure.

Even in college I was a mess. I didn’t give “a frogs fat ass” (what movie?) if people were coming over to drink, or to hang, or to workout, or even to drink. They all had to step over stuff.

I’m still kind of messy. Not nearly as bad as before, but it’s not just my children’s things that we’re stepping over in the living room. And my minivan is usually deep with jackets and gym towels. Occasionally, the floor gets that golden hue that comes with ground in goldfish.

I have noticed something though. I’ve noticed that the stress level at home (for myself and my wife, anyway) is directly related to the level of clutter. I don’t know why... who does? It’s just one of those things that “is.” Like gravity, or boobs in horror movies. It’s supposed to be that way. The drop kick, and other similar incidents are all happening toward the end of the day when my wife is coming home. Her day is stressful enough. I don’t want her to be stressed out at home.

So you see, like most things, it all boils down to me being a great husband (that loves horror movies).