Footprints

It wasn’t so hard to recycle when the boys were small. It really wasn’t any trouble to toss the glass juice bottles in one bin and the pamphlets for weight loss programs I’d decided not to try in another. But now that they’re big enough to leave six month old soda cans in places I can’t reach, the job is a little tougher.

My first instinct was to don a HazMat suit and spray their room with that industrial strength foam they use to clean up chemical spills. However, I decided that this wasn’t the example I wanted to set. First of all they’d both want to be the next to wear the suit and the first to spray their brother. I decided on another tactic: put them in charge.

Son Number Two, Destructo the Younger, flattens cardboard boxes and maintains order in the mixed paper box. Each warlord, er, boy, gets to enforce rules governing his domain (By royal decree, crushed cans go in the Christmas coffee can painted like a Gingerbread Man and flattened boxes go upright in their own tall kitchen trash can--I guess vertical is the new green.)

I let the oldest, Destructo the First on the Scene, be in charge of can smashing. There’s not a piece of recyclable aluminum that’s safe when he tours the house looking for additions to fill his container.

From what I can tell, we’re doing well on the recycling, but it sure looks like we’re leaving one heckuva carbonated footprint.

Earth Day Dilemma

Last night Sons One and Two were piled up on each end of the recliner couch, conserving energy in preparation for Earth Day.

I headed toward their room with a bucket and a broom, an activity that generally raises their alertness level to at least DefCon 1.

Son One peered suspiciously at me over his elevated Reeboks, an alarming feat considering the size of the feet. “What are you doing?”

“I thought I’d liberate some earth in preparation for tomorrow. You guys have enough free range topsoil in there to grow an acre of organic asparagus.”

He made the icky face. “I don’t like asparagus. Can you grow cake?”

I took a peek through their doorway. “Maybe Devil’s Food.”

“Funny, Mom. What’s with the bucket?”

Not wanting to compromise the integrity of my mission, I shot a wary glance at Son Two. He was staring intently at a tiny screen in front of him that he appeared to be massaging with his thumbs. Wires sprouted from the pockets of his hoodie and disappeared into his hair in the vicinity of where ears should be located. We haven’t seen his ears since 2003, so I’m a little apprehensive about confirming their whereabouts.

“Shhhh. I’m going to return his rock collection to the wild.”

The recliner at the end of the couch popped open like a mouse trap with reverse action. Music disappeared down flying headphones like water down a drain. The only thing dearer to Son Two than his rock collection is whatever he happens to have in the six million pockets of his camo jacket. Or a pizza. Or a six pack of YooHoos. This kid rotates his priorities like a farmer rotates crops.

“It took all my life to collect that highly specialized representation of rock types. Throw out your own stuff.”

Who says there's no communication between generations?

“I can’t. The only stuff you guys haven’t commandeered for personal use is my makeup and my dangly earrings. I’ll give up my CoverGirl complexion before I part with my highly specialized collection of bright and shinies. Besides, my stuff isn’t environmentally friendly.”

“What about those silver earrings with your birthstone?”

“Sorry. Ashes to ashes. Amethysts to earlobes.”

I was blazing a trail across the carpet in their room when I was stopped in my tracks by a line of crusty laundry that would resemble that long wall in China if seen from space.

I went back, popped some popcorn, and joined the boys on the couch.

I know when I’m beaten. I can shovel my way through shag, but I can’t fight the Great Wall of Chinos.