"You guys are slobs!" Ken's disgusted voice rang in my ears as he slammed the door and headed back outside. I could hear his tirade continuing and knew we were the intended audience even if the door was closed. "Can't even pick up a single toy! Look at this mess! I don't even want to see the inside of the car!"

     "There are five kids here," I yelled. "I can't keep up with all the messes they make. I can't even keep up with the messes you make. If we had any closets it would help; I'm so tired of living out of boxes I can't stand it. Where do you want me to put the stuff? What do you expect from me, anyway?!"

     It was an ongoing argument. One we shouted through closed doors to let off steam. He was right. I was right. We were both frustrated beyond endurance. Today, however, he had really been unreasonable. He wanted the bicycles and tricycles and scooters to be somewhere else and there was no where else. I knew it was hard to mow the yard, but the kids had no place to put them. Kind of like everything else.

     There were seven of us. Our house was 647 square feet with no closets. We were also busy, active people who had lots of stuff and things. Because we encouraged our teenagers to volunteer their time and energy and neither of them could yet drive, it also meant many hours on the road for me . . . Mom's taxi complete with a baby and two preschoolers. Ken rarely had the kids in his truck so he had no idea what it was like.

     "Would you look at this car?!" Hadn't he said he didn't want to see it?

     "Leave my car alone," I hollered, opening the door, "I bag up all the residue twice a week." One of his pet peeves was that I let the kids eat in the car. I'd like to see him keep them happy for hours in the car without letting them eat, particularly on the mornings when I bundled them up in their pajamas to get Karen, one of our teenagers, to the Raptor Center by 8:00 a.m.

     I spent two days a week with two preschoolers and a baby in my car for no less than five hours. One day a week, we were on the road at 7:15 a.m. and although we were home a good share of the time, our last trip of the day kept us out until about 10:00 p.m. We did NOT allow anyone to throw things out of the car windows, so food wrappers and coloring pages were invariably in the car.

     "Hey, Mom," Karen called as she glanced out the window, parting the blinds and interrupting my self-righteous reverie. "I thought I recognized the sound of that engine. It's those stupid people stopping at the corner again. Can't we do something about them? It's gross!" We lived on a short, rather secluded country road at one 90* bend of an "ess" turn. The other 90* bend was about a quarter of a mile from us at the edge of a blackberry field. Local young people had gotten in the habit of stopping at the other bend to go to the bathroom . . . sometimes in the "privacy" of the berry rows and sometimes in the middle of the road. Karen was right, it WAS gross. The farmer who owned the land had put a cable across the lane into his field at that point and although it kept them from driving in, it did not prevent them from stopping. Lately, there had been several migrant vehicles which had began to stop there as well. Word must have gotten around that THAT was the closest public restroom.

     "Look at this stuff!" Ken was still stomping around the yard. "You let them kick their pop cups out of the car into the driveway. It looks like a pig-sty out here!"

     I knew he was right, but I was tired and it was not out there. I opened the door. "I did not "LET" them kick cups out! Just leave it for now, OK?" I changed my tone of voice and tried to mollify him, "I'll go out and pick it all up when the kids are in bed. I'll even clean out the car tonight if it'll make you happy."

     "Yah, right," sarcasm was dripping in the air, "and what month do you suppose that will be? In this century?" I was beginning to take his comments rather personally. I slammed the door and tried to ignore whatever he was saying out there. I could hear him whistling to Clancy and knew he had turned the dog lose for a run. She had probably gone back to the neighbors' pond for a swim.

     Bang! Bang! Bang! Someone was pounding on the door. What in the world . . .? The kids all came running to see what was happening. I opened the door to find Ken standing there with a dirty disposable diaper in his hand. Clancy was sitting at his heels panting, tongue lolling out of her mouth, leaving puddles of dog drool on the porch.

     "This is really too much," he said, narrowing his eyes and wrinkling his nose in complete repugnance. Then, in a saccharin tone, "And can you tell me just where THIS came from?" The implication was clear: I had dumped one of Garrett's dirty diapers in the yard. Karen caught on even before I did and collapsed in laughter, making Ken even angrier.

     "No I can't, dear," I said as innocently as I possibly could, matching saccharine for saccharine, "we don't USE disposable diapers." I put on my sweetest smile and blinked. Ken looked at me vacantly. He looked at the disgusting diaper in his hand and then at his dog, eagerly wagging her tail. He looked down the road toward the corner where a migrant family was just piling back into their car. I don't think Clancy's trip had been to the pond.

     Karen and I both recall seeing a light bulb appear above his head and "click" on. I closed the door quietly, clamped my hand over my mouth and retreated hastily to the bathroom before the laughter exploded.

     I DID clean out the car that night and tried my best to pick up the kids' toys in the yard so Ken would be able to mow. He didn't quit accusing us of being slobs, but he is FAR more careful about what he picks up!