The Underwear Award

Less than 12 seconds ago, it seems, I was on my knees praying for the day my kids would be out of diapers, and my troubles would be over. Sears Underoos (tm) were my Holy Grail.

There were a few months there when I was seriously looking into colleges that would accept kids in diapers, but it all worked out in the end.

There's an oft-ignored saying that goes: When you climb to the top of a pile of poo, you see in the distance many other piles of poo yet to be conquered. Okay, maybe it was "mountains" or something like that, but to each her obstacle. I'm sure Confucius would agree, even though in his time he probably wasn't in charge of anything as important as underwear.

I now am working several hygiene issues, which I will describe below. I'm telling you this up front so that you can just hit the "back" button and run for your life. Much like my husband does when these things arise, and much like *I would like to, if I hadn't been born with a pair of ovaries and a huge lack of parental foresight that peaked in my mid-twenties.

First, the issue of toilet paper. Namely - that it exists, and was invented for the express purpose of (no, not making an exact miniature replica of Mount Everest on the bathroom floor) making a mother's life less odiferous, and/or generally disgusting.

This is especially important if a child ever expects to be hoisted onto his mother's shoulders to see the parade, ever again.

A child's idea of "thorough" - while extending to cover expectations for proper theme park attendance or the like - rarely extends to issues of cleanliness. Until they reach the age of, oh, 35 or so (sometimes longer for men) attention to such detail seems a waste of life. Ironic, considering this is the same demographic that seems to think Pokemon movies are a prudent use of time.

Now, assuming that one has one's work cut out in driving home the cleanliness issue noted above, an alternate strategy may be to enforce a strict ban on "inside-out" donations to the laundry hamper. The death penalty should apply.

Next - and this one ought to just be genetically ingrained (go ahead and pick you religion, but *somebody was asleep at the wheel here) - underwear should be changed every day. There is no way for a mother to adequately prepare to face the comprehensive care and education of a gaggle of kids too stupid to instinctively know this.

True, at least for girls, you can buy the variety of underthings that have days of the week coyly embroidered on the front. But this presupposes the child can *read - which in my opinion occurs well past the window of opportunity for establishing sound habits.

I believe that my children are currently in that window. So assuming that it's my job to flog them into compliance (figuratively, for any HRS nazis reading) I've come up with "The Underwear Award."

Short of personally affecting the necessary garment change - an idea I find abhorrent on many levels (and which I'm way too lazy to implement in any case) I have opted to tap into sibling rivalry in a shameless ploy to get the job done.

Each week on laundry day, I allot points as follows.

• Each pair of underwear found in the hamper: 1 point
  
• Not particularly disgusting (ordinary wear-and-tear only): +1
  
• Each pair of underwear found on the floor next to the hamper: ½ point
  
• Each pair of underwear hidden in the house somewhere, found by smell: Wrath of God