At home, where the buffalo still roam
LORI CLINCH Are We There Yet?
The other day as I stood in the midst of the filth that we call home, a child appeared before me. He was wearing a faux buffalo hat.

Don't ask me why he was wearing the faux buffalo hat. I can't explain it anymore than I can explain the kid who put on his winter coat and set about running through the sprinklers. Anyone who tries to come up with a reason for that is going to end up sitting in a corner and rocking while humming to herself.

I know, because I've been there and done that.

"You look like you need a hug," the buffalo said to me. Although hugs can be nice and produce all kinds of warm fuzzies, I was a bit too frustrated with the filth that was all about me to appreciate the prospect of a warm embrace.

"You know what I need?" I said in response to his offer of affection. "I need some help with this house. This place looks like a parade just went through." I then spewed out a list that was a mile long and included toilets, windows and many other areas of contention, and when I turned to see what the faux buffalo's response might be, I saw that he had disappeared.

He moved quietly for a buffalo, even a faux one. And he was fast, too, for not only had he disappeared from sight, but before I could find him he had spread the word throughout the abode that Mom was about to embark upon a cleaning mission and that everyone should, and I quote, "Run while there is still time!"

It's not as if these kids of mine are awesome cleaners, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and one would have to be desperate to insist on their help. They've been known to cut corners and shave costs, and when it comes to sweeping the dirt under the rug, they've got no qualms.

I found one child hiding in his closet, another was buried up to his ankles under his bed, and although the buffalo was doing his best to sneak out the door and on to his home on the range, I corralled him posthaste.

I wrote up the list and doled out chores. Knowing that these kids of mine think that setting a can of Pledge on the end table qualifies as dusting, I went into great detail about the tasks that needed to be done. I spoke of our ancestors and that surely Great-Great-Grandma Clinch would have given anything to be able to vacuum instead of using a hay bale to scrub her dirt floor clean.

Yet, despite my stellar efforts, not 10 minutes had passed before those kids of mine proclaimed their tasks to be done and were running out the front door.

Further investigation showed that they had stuffed socks in the end tables, shoved soiled shirts under the couch and thought nothing of hiding an apple core in the cute little basket that I had reserved for the remotes.

The child who had been assigned the task of loading the dishwasher had placed a skillet on the top rack and exactly one large mixing bowl on the bottom and then determined that the machine was full before he loaded it with soap and turned it on.

The Monopoly game had been dumped into the magazine basket, a football adorned the baker's rack, and you show me someone who thought the dirty ice cream bowls in the entertainment center looked as if they belonged there and I'll show you a kid with little or no creative flair.

Luckily enough for me, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and was able to snag Little Charlie just before he escaped. He was wearing his faux raccoon hat and Davy Crockett jacket, and by the looks of his get-up, he was about to head out to hunt down a buffalo.

"I thought you were supposed to vacuum," I said as I grabbed him by the tail.

"I did!" he proclaimed.

"That wasn't vacuuming; you pushed the appliance through each room one time and called it a day."

"Well, I'm not a neat freak, but I tried."

"You didn't even turn it on!"

Little Charlie exhaled deeply and then took a long draw off his canteen and walked away as he mumbled something under his breath about Davy Crockett's mom not making a slave out of him. No sooner was he out of sight than the buffalo reappeared.

"You look like you need a hug," he said with his face an inch from mine.

"Oh, what the heck," I said as I finally gave in. If we're going to live like animals, at least some of us look the part.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch. com.