One of Michael’s dear sisters is a study in energy conservation, both mental and physical. Having recently attained the status of teenager-hood (by no effort of her own, other than merely riding upon the earth for thirteen trips around the sun) she is now ascending to a seasoned ripeness of sloth.
Now, I’ll give you: Most teenagers tend toward laziness. They’re difficult to pry out of bed, and make great protestation at being asked to do anything beyond that which is essential for sustaining life and absorbing entertainment.
But this particular sister has plunged indolence to a new nadir. To this sister, every expenditure – and I do mean every one – is hard work.
She prefers to lie down on the couch to watch TV rather than sit up, because sitting up is too hard.
When my wife and I are in the thick of laundry or dinner or cleaning or whatnot, and we ask her to help us by coming to remove Michael or cousin O out from under our feet, her response is to remain motionless on the couch and call to them in a mildly enthusiastic voice.
Her version of “playing with her brother” is to lie down on the floor in the same room where he is. While performing this “activity”, and Michael and/or cousin O are dancing around or playing with their toys, she’ll just lie on the floor and let them step on her hair, trip over her midsection, or rain down brightly-colored, chunky plastic doom upon her face rather than get up and out of harm’s way.
Since the dishes need to be done every day at least once, it’s her job to unload and then load the dishwasher when she gets home from school. When I get home I’ll usually find that she loaded it with a brief selection of dirty items such as a spatula, two cups, a plate and a fork. Inevitably, her excuse is either that it was too hard to do or she didn’t know how (which really translates to the same thing).
But the event that really saps my strength is getting her to read the text specifically related to the day’s homework. This homework is provided on a few pages stapled together, with a few paragraphs of text explaining some concept in detail, and then a page or two of questions regarding the concept. She’ll call for help, handing me the sheets of paper, saying she doesn’t understand. Invariably, and I seriously do not exaggerate here, understanding is only a matter of reading the text and finding the answers within it. But to her that is mental effort, which is to be avoided at all cost. She instead wants me to read the text, digest the information and then spoon-feed her properly-worded answers, which I flatly refuse to do. When I remind her that we go through this every day, the whining begins in earnest.
And then my will to live is sucked dry. She drags me down the way a drowning victim claws down her rescuer. Her incapacity reaches a critical mass, becoming a neutron star of density such that even my own intelligence cannot escape; it pulls all surrounding knowledge into it until there’s nothing left but the vacuum of slack-jawed oblivion.
All of this, to say nothing of our expectation of her bringing down her own laundry, running the vacuum once in a blue moon, raking leaves, or doing anything productive without being coaxed off the couch with explosives.
The clincher was just the other morning. After bringing Michael’s breakfast dishes to the sink I happened to notice a considerable smattering of Cheerios gently sliding from her upturned cereal bowl into the garbage disposal.
“What’s with all the Cheerios you tossed out?”
“I couldn’t finish,” she said.
“Well next time, don’t pour yourself so many.”
“No, I mean I couldn’t scoop them out of the bowl.”
“You couldn’t scoop them out?”
“It’s too hard,” she whined.
Speechless, I was.
My wife and I are convinced that the next stage for her is to use a Lark to get around, and a Rail Lift chair to get to her bedroom upstairs. Then once she gets used to that, she’ll be wanting a heart-lung machine, IV drip nutrition and a catheter because working those muscles is way too much effort.
She’s going to have to face life with all of its demands once she’s out on her own. She’s going to have to work to earn a living, and it’ll be hard work. I really don’t think she understands just how hard it’s going to be, compared to what she’s used to. When that day comes, and she’s waving goodbye before heading out, I’ll give her about nineteen seconds before she comes back asking for just one more year at home.