I cringe at the heap that lies on the rug in my son’s room. It includes baseball cards, Lego pieces, balled up underwear, popsicle sticks, and the first 20 pages from a book that was read into oblivion. Add the half-eaten yogurt that’s turned sideways on the desk, and I feel uncomfortable.
More than uncomfortable.
At least the bed is made. Not well, but made. I insist on that. I have to draw the line against sloppiness somewhere.
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