Pants

Having an extremely (and scarily) organised first son, I have realised that my second not-so-organised son has been sent to keep me humble.

Oh how I could gloat about the independence and responsibility. Incredibly, I actually thought it was down to my wonderful parenting. I must have been a great mother. Until I had Max. And then reality hit me over the head with a large mallet in the form of a child.

Here is an excerpt of a conversation I had with Max, aged 9, this morning.

Me: Time to get dressed, Max.
Max: Uh?
Me: I said, it's time to get dressed.
Max: Oh.

I left him to it for a few minutes before returning to find him in his pants.

Me: Max, you wore those pants yesterday. You can't wear them again today.
Max: No, I wore my hulk pants yesterday.
Me: No, you wore those because I remember seeing you dancing in them last night.
Max: Oh, ok. But I didn't wear them in the night so it'll be ok to wear them again today.
Me: No, it isn't ok. You can't wear pants for two days.
Max: Oh. Why?

Sometimes I do wonder if he is related at all to his older brother who does his own washing and finds satisfaction in tidying his bedroom. And sometimes I sigh to myself and wonder if there is any point in trying to create organisation to a disorganised, but lovely, mind. And often I remember what a good mother I used to be, before.