If I didn’t know my children so well, and know that they are almost constitutionally opposed to anything resembling angelic behavior, I would suspect that they were taken up in the Rapture every day after school. After all, what possible other explanation could there be for the pile of coats, books and shoes that litter the area just inside the front door? Surely the only thing that could be happening is that as soon as they set foot back in the house we are treated to the Second Coming, and they, along with all of the other Righteous Souls, are instantly transported up to Heaven, leaving all worldly goods behind. Well, that would be the only explanation, if it wasn’t for the fact that I doubt there is any way my children would ever stop pushing and blaspheming each other long enough to make the trip from earth to the heavenly realm. And I’m sure that somehow, even if they did, the trail of power cords and mascara (from the things neither of them would ever willingly let be “left behind”) would reveal their ultimate destination. And, of course, there’s the fact that we’re all atheists (except for Clementine, the black sheep of the family, who insists on agnosticism) that really makes me think that the Rapture just isn’t in the cards for me and my family.
Which is unfortunate, because the only other explanation I have for the piles of earthly possessions that appear every afternoon to trip me as I walk in the front door is that my children are inconsiderate slobs who would rather see me fall on face carrying a full bag of groceries than walk the extra twenty inches to put away their things. Knowing that, you can see why the Rapture might be an appealing alternative explanation.
Sometimes I think that if we had a tall enough fence around the front yard they would actually start shedding as soon as they got out of the car, and that instead of the aftermath of a Rapture it would look more like a very successful rave had just taken place. I’m not sure if that would be better or worse, visually, but at least outside I would have more room to maneuver around the piles. Once I step inside my options are kind of limited, and sure, I could step directly on the items in question, but you’d be surprised at what treacherous footing a pair of shoes make when they are not on your feet. (Or maybe, having slobby kids of your own, perhaps you wouldn’t be.)
The worst thing of course is that they never, ever, trip on their own stuff, and so have no idea what I’m talking about when I complain. Somehow, to them, the various articles of clothing and school books are not so much road hazards as guide posts, the same way Hansel and Gretel probably didn’t see what they were doing as littering so much as trail marking. (Although, if Clementine and Clyde are Hansel and Gretel then I guess I’m either the witch or the evil stepmother. I think I’ll take witch. At least she owned her own home. And could, apparently, cook up a mean child souffle.)
Or maybe it’s the same as the way skunks don’t seem to mind their own stink. (Although, really, how would we know if they did? It’s not like skunks have the most expressive of faces—they could be suffering all sorts of existential crises every day and we would never know it. Or, to be honest, care.) In any case, I think that the same way skunks aren’t driven out of their dens by their own stink, children aren’t tripped up by their own detritus. That’s my theory, at least And I’m keeping it.
After all, it’s still more believable than The Rapture.