Guest blogger Lori Curley: This summer, my husband insisted that our lazy loafer teenagers pick weeds every day before they went to the beach. They griped and they grumbled and they argued. "This is so stupid!" the youngest said. "They are just going to grow back."
"It's pointless," added the oldest one.
"Why don't you just spray that weed killer? Why do we have to keep pulling them
Their voices were pleading and angry. They wanted me to believe that it wasn't
the task itself they hated, but the senselessness of it. As if they would gladly
help out in some other fashion, like bedmaking? ("What's the point? Every night, I get back in ....") Or sweeping the kitchen floor? ("Why do you care? What's wrong with a little sand?"). At the height of their whiny diatribe, I sent my dear husband a text: "We are
"The point is," I explained one morning, "that everyone should do a little work, and it is not real work until you start complaining about it." This perplexed
them, because they realized that I liked hearing them moan. It was the moaning I wanted -- not the weeds!