A few mornings ago, Michael called down the stairs to me that the pancakes were ready to eat. I had been up a couple of hours doing some work at my computer and I walked up the stairs thinking I would follow him to his house. But he had their blue recycling bin and was clumsily carrying it to the larger recycling bin at the back of my house.
“Their bin must be full,” I thought and then I changed my mind. I had no idea why he was using my cart instead of theirs but in the end it doesn’t matter – it was all going to be recycled and I can use their bin if mine is full. I followed him because it is fun to chat with little 7 year old boys.
As he dumped stuff, I watched what was going in the bun, checking off what is allowed since I am still learning myself what is allowed and what isn’t: clean paper, clean glass jars, tins, aluminum foil, cardboard … and then I saw a large African cover for a queen sized bed drop into the bin. I reached in and pulled it out, saying to him, “Whoops, I bet your family doesn’t want this any more and I can use it. I will iron it up and Mary will love it in her new home.”
“Can you take it out,” he asked.
“Sure, just like this,” and I reached in and pulled the throw out. Then his eyes fell on a plastic truck that had dropped into the bin.
“Hey, my dad is throwing out my good toy that I still love.”
“Well, it looks like he doesn’t want it at his house. How about we keep it in my garage until you don’t need it anymore,” I said, going on, “I think we could wash it up and it would look just fine. We could have a whole box in my garage of things you are saving but that your folks don’t want at their house anymore.”
“And look, here are my ear buds. Why are they being thrown out?” he asked, grabbing them out of the bin and beginning to untangle them.
I don’t know much about electronics, but I can help with untangling them. But it is not possible to help Richard’s and Miranda’s kids. Once they get started on a job and I try to get my hands in there, my hands are pushed away. I am not used to having that happen so when I can feel that physical rejection of my hands as they shove them away, I also feel an amazement at their independence. They are not going to ask for help until they really need it. This is not just true of Michael, but it is true of Alice and it comes in spades for Betty.
As we walked back to his house, carrying the recycling bin, I tossed the bed throw into my house and down the stairs. Michael walked along, still untangling the white chord and Richard stepped out of the house and onto the porch.
“What are you doing?” he called to Michael. “Did you take that out of the recycling?” When I put stuff in there, I mean for it to be in there, not coming back into the house. Now you get that right back into the recycling. Those earbuds are broken and they aren’t coming back into the house.”
I knew we were both in trouble. Well, I had thrown the evidence of my recycling the recycling down my basement stairs. So I was good on that count. And I had left the truck by the garage door, so Richard couldn’t see any evidence that I had participated in this venture. But Michael’s hands were still busy trying to detangle the white wires and Michael couldn’t stop his hands as fast as Richard wanted him to.
I didn’t know if this was the time to speak up and say that I had started this, or if it was just better to let Richard finish the early morning rant about how the recycling should be taken out. I thought maybe I could bring this up a long way down the road when Richard was feeling a little less judgemental about our interference in the path that the recycling should take.
Actually I did know what to do.
This was not the time to bring up my participation in saving the universe by recycling the recycling.
Still, it was hard on me to let a 7 year old take the blame.
Arta
“Their bin must be full,” I thought and then I changed my mind. I had no idea why he was using my cart instead of theirs but in the end it doesn’t matter – it was all going to be recycled and I can use their bin if mine is full. I followed him because it is fun to chat with little 7 year old boys.
As he dumped stuff, I watched what was going in the bun, checking off what is allowed since I am still learning myself what is allowed and what isn’t: clean paper, clean glass jars, tins, aluminum foil, cardboard … and then I saw a large African cover for a queen sized bed drop into the bin. I reached in and pulled it out, saying to him, “Whoops, I bet your family doesn’t want this any more and I can use it. I will iron it up and Mary will love it in her new home.”
“Can you take it out,” he asked.
 |
| ... saving the green truck ... |
“Hey, my dad is throwing out my good toy that I still love.”
“Well, it looks like he doesn’t want it at his house. How about we keep it in my garage until you don’t need it anymore,” I said, going on, “I think we could wash it up and it would look just fine. We could have a whole box in my garage of things you are saving but that your folks don’t want at their house anymore.”
“And look, here are my ear buds. Why are they being thrown out?” he asked, grabbing them out of the bin and beginning to untangle them.
I don’t know much about electronics, but I can help with untangling them. But it is not possible to help Richard’s and Miranda’s kids. Once they get started on a job and I try to get my hands in there, my hands are pushed away. I am not used to having that happen so when I can feel that physical rejection of my hands as they shove them away, I also feel an amazement at their independence. They are not going to ask for help until they really need it. This is not just true of Michael, but it is true of Alice and it comes in spades for Betty.
As we walked back to his house, carrying the recycling bin, I tossed the bed throw into my house and down the stairs. Michael walked along, still untangling the white chord and Richard stepped out of the house and onto the porch.
“What are you doing?” he called to Michael. “Did you take that out of the recycling?” When I put stuff in there, I mean for it to be in there, not coming back into the house. Now you get that right back into the recycling. Those earbuds are broken and they aren’t coming back into the house.”
I knew we were both in trouble. Well, I had thrown the evidence of my recycling the recycling down my basement stairs. So I was good on that count. And I had left the truck by the garage door, so Richard couldn’t see any evidence that I had participated in this venture. But Michael’s hands were still busy trying to detangle the white wires and Michael couldn’t stop his hands as fast as Richard wanted him to.
I didn’t know if this was the time to speak up and say that I had started this, or if it was just better to let Richard finish the early morning rant about how the recycling should be taken out. I thought maybe I could bring this up a long way down the road when Richard was feeling a little less judgemental about our interference in the path that the recycling should take.
Actually I did know what to do.
This was not the time to bring up my participation in saving the universe by recycling the recycling.
Still, it was hard on me to let a 7 year old take the blame.
Arta
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