Trashed

If there is one thing, one tiny, itsy bitsy thing, that makes me scream the wild scream of insanity it’s having the kids go through our trash like suspicious reporters trying to find a nugget of discarded treasure.

 

We have always operated on a “no plowing through the trash” policy around here. I don’t go through the trash. My husband doesn’t go through the trash. Not even the Great Dane or the poodles go through the trash.

 

But the kids. They’re trash maniacs.

 

A drawing on a piece of paper? It’s treated like a long lost Picasso.

 

A broken toy? I gave up much too soon and with proper Tender Loving Care, unlimited access to glue sticks, and scissors it can be restored to wholeness.

 

And – God Forbid! – a sticker?! Just cause for a pyrotechnic display.

 

Today was particularly bad. One of our winter coats disintegrated in the post-season washing and I gave up on it. I hid it in a trash bag – yes, it was colored, you trash affectionados who have dealt with this before – and waited. But, alas, I should have removed it from the premises after bed time. Instead it was a ticking time bomb of emotion, innocently sitting beside our regular kitchen trash can.

 

It was discovered.

 

The tears began.

 

The questions… oh! The endless questions of motive!

 

Until I am left to hide behind my computer screen and pour my angst out to the world.

 

But the coat’s still in the bag.

 

Do you ever hide things from your children in the trash?