"You know what I'm tired of?" Mr. Peevie asked me last night, with a hint of quiet desperation in his voice. There are so many possible answers to that question.
"Oh, I don't know," I said. "Having your sentences finished by a 7-year-old?"
"Being contradicted by a 12-year-old?"
"Having a 10-year-old in bed between us every night?"
"No, although last night I was helping three kids with homework at the same time--and one of them wasn't even mine!" (That's another blog post for another time.)
"Picking up my underwear in the bathroom?" I asked reluctantly.
"Well, yes, but that's nothing new," Mr. Peevie said.
"OK, I give up. What are you tired of?" I said.
"I'm tired of flushing other people's poop," he said, shaking his head like a man who is slowly letting go of his dreams. "I just flushed two different poops in two different bathrooms, and I just wish that people would learn to flush their own shit."
I do not think that is asking too much.