The Littlest Litterbug

The winter winds whipped around my ears. Reaching for the doorknob, I turned and leaned toward the waiting warmth. The latch released and the door opened into the kitchen --
then bound firmly only three inches from the jamb! Unable to open it further, I became uncharacteristically Rambo-esque in my response.

I picked myself up and, there, amid the fresh splinters and shards of door, lay the obstructing accumulation of mittens, hat, and coat, which had been instantly shed by the Littlest Litterbug upon her return from school.

As my eyes grew accustomed to the interior light, I began to distinguish the image of a small person sitting on the floor of the living room drinking a glass of juice and catching up on all of the latest cartoon action. Piled around her, nearly up to her neck, were the many items necessary to this kind of task: scraps of yarn and string, stuffed animals by the dozen, a couple of cheese wrappers, an empty bread bag, the precariously-balanced glass of juice, and the obligatory daily ream of ditto sheets from school.

With an off-hand, "Hi, Dad!", she returned to her concentrated wallow, luxuriating in the snippets of yarn and the crumples of paper and I began the clean-up, starting with the kitchen floor. After exhuming the various items of outer-wear from their burial amidst the debris, I was finally able to locate the floor and sweep the other pieces into a pile. I then concentrated my attention on the door itself and, miraculously, the damage wasn't quite so bad after all -- we really wouldn't have to go through the rest of the winter relying on that flimsy storm door.

I turned my attention to dinner but, in order to get anything underway, I had to make space on the counter. Before leaving this morning, I had cleaned the counters and put all of the dishes away -- clean in the cupboards and dirty in the dishwasher. I simply don't understand how one small person, in the course of approximately one and one half unsupervised hours, can use so much dishware, glassware, and silverware! The jelly jar was open, the top on the counter propping up two different knives. The peanut butter, too, was going topless but, for the moment, I couldn't find the top -- a spoon handle was taking up some of the space the top's supposed to cover. Another breadbag -- only this one was not empty, just open. The orange juice jug teetered (open --top not-in-sight) somewhere between the rim of a plate and the counter. Six, yes, six! crumpled sheets of paper towel were dispersed randomly across the full extent of the two counters. The cupboard doors were open -- one for the plates and the other for the glasses. I reached to close the cupboard holding the few remaining clean glasses and there, tucked away behind the Snoopy glass we got at McDonald's a couple years ago, lay the top to the orange juice jug. I replaced the top where it belonged and opened the refrigerator to put the juice away. There, right where the juice was supposed to be, was the top to the peanut butter. Well, one step at a time!

The spoon sticking out of the peanut butter extended out a full three inches. How is it that a spoon about 6 inches long sticking out of a jar three inches deep can get covered in peanut butter over its entire length? As often as this kind of thing happens, I am astounded each time. Gradually, bit by little piece, I returned the counters to some state of usefulness. Although it probably wouldn't hurt to mention that I found eight more paper towels in the garbage strainer in the sink and under them one of the family heirloom spoons. Guess it's a good thing I didn't simply dump!

With the counters re-tamed, it was time to catch up with her day. I picked my way into the living room looking for booby-traps. Not that I was disappointed mind you; at the edge of the rug a yogurt top was resting -- fortunately right side up -- that is, yogurt to the air. I picked it up and retraced my steps as far as the trash basket then tried once more. This time I was successful making it all the way to the couch. Wonder of wonders there really was a place to sit (only one sweater and that wasn't even hers.)

"So, how was your day?"

"K.."

"K? What's 'K'? Anything exciting?" What did you do today in school?

"Well, we did some coloring -- see?"

I should know better! The next half hour was devoted to looking at the day's papers -- not the journalistic kind -- these are the ones that elementary schools have determined to be their revenge on all parents for having had the temerity to cause another little person to enter their world. Yep, there was the numbers one, and the spelling one, and the pictures one and on and on. "We did some coloring" and out came several papers with crayon marks all over. Generally only one color per page -- although a couple of the pages actually made use of two crayons. Who ever thought-up sixty four different colors anyway? And the workbook pages -- I'd yet to see any workbook but individual pages showed up with uncanny regularity --generally a dozen a day.

Now, it's not that I don't believe in paper but, just for the kick of it, I decided to count the various rumples she thrust at me. As unbelievable as it may seem, I counted seventy three separate sheets of paper!

"Are all of these today's?"

"Most of 'em. But Miss Warren said I had to clean out my desk, too-"

"How many were left in your desk?"

"I dunno, only a couple, really."

I certainly hope they get computers (without printers) hooked-up in the elementary schools pretty soon. Although I have to admit that there is something heady about the smell of duplicating fluid which would be sorely missed.

In any event, I took each of the proffered sheets of paper and stacked them (neatly) so that I could dispose of them later (after she was in bed). But what I really want to know is WHEN I will ever learn! Now, as I looked over to Litterbug, I saw the rest of the contents of the bookbag strewn around her-- a small pencil sharpener spewing shavings, three or four pencils, an eraser or two, and lots of little half-inch stubs of crayon. Not much of that "traditional" trash -- the gum wrappers and such -- they've not been deigned important enough to carry around. They had probably already been swept up by the janitor during his rounds at school.

I suggested to Littlest that it was time to turn off the TV and get ready for dinner. As part of that suggestion I intended that some of her various trundle be returned to her room. So, off she went, up the stairs with a couple of her stuffed animals and I returned to the kitchen to check on dinner. While I was setting the table, she wandered in looking for "something to drink." Now, as any parent knows, "something to drink" really translates as "some soda" and since dinner was still some time away, I acquiesced and suggested that she should help herself. Even though the table was only a few steps out of sight, I watched her head back to her room and I returned to the kitchen. There, on the counter was the soda jug with its top lying neatly to the side -- at least. I wasn't too tickled with the little puddle of cola that was trying to get from the countertop down across the cupboard doors to its friend on the floor!

Dinner passed without incident and it was now time for the Littlest Litterbug to go to bed. Most of the stuffed animal pile remained in the living room but, on my insistence, several trips back and forth whittled away at the pile until none of her friends remained. That, apparently, was the signal that bed-time was really here and she made her last trip upstairs.

"Get yourself ready and I' ll be up to say goodnight in a minute" I told her. It's fairly easy to keep track of what is meant by "in a minute"; what with the running of water in the bathroom and the crashing and bashing overhead in the bedroom. Once a certain level of quiet is realized, it's time to say goodnight so off I went. The bedroom was pretty much what one would expect; clothes were tossed haphazardly here and there -- there being no distinction between clean and dirty in this situation -- the pile of stuffed animals had been transferred to the bed in toto, and books and papers lay side by side .-- almost as if they were intended to protect the rug from undue wear and tear. The infamous soda glass was lying on its side just under the foot of the bed -- fortunately it had been emptied by the time it was abandoned there -- and my favorite coffee mug (the one with the chip in the handle) peered out from under a corner of the blanket. I gathered up these various kitchen items and proceded to say goodnight. On my way back down the stairs, I made a quick swing by the bathroom to turn off the light that had been left on.

Simply reaching in on my way by the door wouldn't work. My ears detected the sound of running water, faint, but there nonetheless. I turned the light back on and looked in. A small but steady trickle of water issued from the faucet in the sink and the toothpaste tube lay open on the back of the toilet. I didn't immediately spot the cap for it but as I turned around to hang up the towel which had been left on the floor, I noticed the toothpaste cap lying in the bathtub. Ah, well.

All was finally quiet. Perhaps I'd start building that new shelf unit I'd been planning on for the past couple of months. I bought the wood last October but somehow just couldn't face the prospect of cleaning up all of the lawnmower parts that had been cluttering the bench -- since last August. Now, where did I put the TV Guide?

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