The Art of Crying Uncle

Although perseverance is often touted as a virtue, I've learned that sometimes the best option is to:

Simply.

Give.

Up.

Case in point--a while back I was dismayed to see this...

...super huge bleach spot marring the moss green luxuriance of one of my Pima cotton hand towels.

I suspected it was the result of Tobias wiping his hands after applying Clearasil to his face. I informed him of such. He assured me that he was certain he was not the guilty party.

My point was proven when I smeared some of the ointment onto the corner of the already fouled towel. Voila! Discoloration.

Not wanting any of my other towels to suffer the same fate, I told him he needed to wash his hands with soap after using the acne cream.

After I saw that a second towel had fallen victim to the same bleaching fate as the first...


...I realized that the medication is such potent stuff that soap can't counteract it. (And yes, I'm confident he was using soap.)

Thus, Plan B was birthed: I installed a roll of paper towels in the bathroom and instructed him to dry his hands on those.

Solved?

Nyet.

He kept forgetting and absentmindedly drying the fingers-o'-destruction on the forbidden cloths. Even a kitchen towel became blighted, proving that the plague was spreading from room to room!

Plan C needed to be be effectual. The appearance of my bathroom was at stake! Therefore, I knew I had to hit him where it hurts...

...right in the wallet.

I bought four new towels (cheap ones this time) and told him that if I saw a bleach blot on any one of them he'd have to pay me back for the ruined rag. Certainly to a kid who only earns a few dollars each week for allowance, the threat of losing that money would cause something in his brain to click, enabling him to remember, remember, remember. I mean, who wants to pay a "towel ruination fee"?

Within days he had "purchased" his first towel. Soon after, he had acquired a pair. By the third unfortunate "fouling", something clicked in my brain.

While pondering my situation, I realized that:

A) His tarnishing of towels was not born out of mischief nor defiance. He's simply a kid whose brain won't be fully formed for another ten years.

B) Although I could ban Clearasil and other similar products from our household, therefore safeguarding all future towels, I didn't want him to suffer the physical and emotional pain that acne can cause.

C) He's only going to be at home with us for a few more years and I want him to remember me as a gracious mom (who recognizes she, too, is prone to screwing things up at times) instead of as a towel nazi.

So...

...when you come to my house and see this...


...don't think of it as a hideous bathroom accessory (like I do every time I dry my hands).

Rather, regard it as an emblem of my love and appreciation for this guy:





I think I have one remaining unblemished towel stuck way in the back of my closet, but it won't be making it's debut on the towel ring until after Sir Bleachalot moves out.