Santa’s got nothing on her: taking list-making to the next level

I love organization. The saying, “A place for everything and everything in its place,” makes me almost as happy as, “Can I get you a drink?” I get a warm feeling inside when I put away the serving spoons and they make a quiet ding as they nestle together in their spot. Though I am about the farthest thing from Mary Poppins that you could find, I have been know to don my apron and hum to myself while joyfully stacking the mixing bowls so perfectly, in a cabinet that seems too small to contain them.

One of the foundations of any good organizer is the list. I love lists so much that I would marry them if I could. My husband forever delights in what he perceives to be my insane need to list-ify everything, but particularly Thanksgiving.

I’ll admit that, to the untrained eye, my process might be considered madness. But really, it’s genius. There’s nothing quite like the thrill of breaking out a fresh piece of looseleaf, a good quality pen and the previous year’s numerically labeled collection of lists and recipes. It’s a two-sided masterpiece that first requires the breakdown of responsibilities by day and task and ends with the matching of serving dishes and utensils with their corresponding foods. The way I see it, if I drop dead, Thanksgiving can continue without a hitch.

I am trying to instill the love of lists in my children. Having trouble choosing the best course of action in some aspect of your life? Make a list of the pros and cons. Keep forgetting what you’ve been assigned for homework? Use the “homework” column in your agenda. And, my personal favorite, the versatile and irreplaceable checklist. For the harried mom, it’s a remarkable tool.

My husband works a lot. I mean, like four or five jobs. And nearly all of them are in New York City. We regularly find ourselves referencing the “In Living Color” skit called “Hey Mon,” where Damon Wayans is a West Indian man with 14 jobs. At one point, he admonishes his son for his slovenly ways, “Lazy mon only have four job!” When Brian brought home two more job applications this summer and briefly, and insanely, thought about applying for one or both, I reiterated this line while I pretended to look for his resume.

Needless to say, we don’t see a whole lot of him. Most week nights, I’m on my own when it comes to the whole parenting thing. I commonly rely on each child to take care of him or her self while I drive the other dependent to one or more activities. I often find that my trust in their ability to survive without me, for any extended period of time, is misplaced.

Even though the daily requirements do not vary much – or at all – the entire concept of doing chores seems to come as a surprise. Every time. I have walked in the door, more than once, past eight o’clock at night to a house that looks like it has been ransacked by gremlins. Putting that rage aside until it can be fully realized, I start bombarding them with questions.

“Did you eat dinner?”

This often gets me a deer-in-the-headlights stare or, more frightening, a comment such as, “Define ‘dinner.’ Do potato chips and a muffin count?” Most nights, I choose not to answer that. Ignoring the crock pot full of nutrition I left behind is hurtful enough. But when I actually find myself considering the question, I know there’s no hope for any of us. Potatoes are a vegetable, right?

“Have you fed your pets?”

There are three dogs, two cats and a pig who are completely dependent on my children for their meals. Two times, every day, these pets get fed. If you go too long past the traditional feeding time, they begin to circle. Sometimes, they even sit right next to you and stare. But apparently, Netflix and video games allow children to become immune to the pain and suffering of their animal companions. I know, I should be unsurprised that children who are willing to starve themselves to keep from moving away from a screen would be even slightly fazed by hungry beasts, but one can always hope.

“Did you pack your lunch?”

Having one child with food allergies and another child whom I love enough to not feed school meals, making home made lunches is essential. In the three plus years that my children have been attending school, they have never once purchased a school lunch. Yet, this question seems to confuse and confound, “Was I supposed to pack my lunch? I don’t remember you asking me to do that.”

“Did you get your clothes out for tomorrow?”

School buses arrive before 7 a.m. in our neighborhood. Every minute of our mornings is planned out to maximize sleep. I cannot be sidetracked by a search for clothes. Especially for the one who wears a uniform. I will not have my child miss recess because the dog was sleeping with her belt. All clothes must be chosen and laid out the evening before. There are no exceptions.

These are questions that deal with the basic necessities of life: food and clothing. I care not to film an episode of “Naked and Afraid” at my home. Mostly because the entire show is a bizarre concept clearly created by a sadist and carried out by masochists for the enjoyment of voyeurs (it’s 2015, no one has to live in a jungle without clothes. Even native people have animal skins and the camera man has food, in case you were wondering. There’s no legitimate reason to be either naked or afraid.) But also because my husband works multiple jobs to provide these children with said food and clothing.

So like a knight on a shining white board, the checklist comes to save us all — me from unspent fury and them from my unspent fury. Each child has his or her responsibilities clearly written out with a corresponding box for checking, once completed. Sometimes, I even leave a weather forecast for the following day. Because it’s hard to explain a cold, crying child in a skort to the cars passing the bus stop while I’m bundled up in my parka, drinking coffee. She should have used the checklist. Just keep driving and remember the old “glass house” adage while you judge me.

I thought that the checklist was the panacea, the magic pill that would calm the tempest, create order from chaos and bring peace to all the land. Turns out, the giant white board looming over the kitchen is somehow shrouded in adolescent apathy. “What list? I didn’t see any list.”

Looks like we’re going to need a bigger white board.

You can make a whiteboard, of any size, for less money than you could ever purchase one. Follow these plans from instructables.com  for a fancy one. You can always make modifications to fit your needs.

I noticed in the comments that some people suggested just getting a piece of glass or plexiglass and hanging it on a white wall. So there’s that. I’m also considering painting the entire house in blackboard paint. It could be wall to wall lists. Imagine the possibilities…

Laurie Nigro, a mother of two, is passionate about her family, her community, and natural living. Laurie resides in downtown Riverhead and is co-founder of the River and Roots Community Garden on West Main Street.
Write to Laurie:
[contact-form-7 id=”29293″ title=”Write to Laurie”]