Water Glasses

When my grandmother Manello got up in the morning part of her routine was to take two paper or Styrofoam cups and write her and my grandfather’s name on each cup. My grandmother issued one cup per day for each of them to use for water—as they both were prescribed numerous medications several times a day. My grandmother was a neat-nick and a germophobe and she also survived the depression-- which is the rationale I used to justify her somewhat eccentric behavior.

This summer I will have two daughters living at home and the third will be staying over with greater frequency as her client for the next three months is located in Suffolk county. Let me be clear—I enjoy their company. I am happy to have them as I am aware that in the not so distant future they will be completely gone with not even one foot in the doorway.

But my daughters are all of the water generation. Without exaggeration they each must consume a quart or two of water/day. They understand the value in keeping their bodies hydrated.

It’s a good thing.

But it has consequences. Every morning in every room—and I mean in every room on every flat surface---there is a collection of water glasses—some empty and some half-filled. The ample supply of glasses in the kitchen cabinet is depleted daily. The dishwasher can barely house them all once I have rounded them all up. I have had parties where I have cleaned up less glassware.

It irritates me.

Part of the adult maturation process is realizing that the ideas and behaviors of your parents or grandparents is not as far off balance as you thought in your youth. As you age and your experiences increase you understand that your elders were wise—that they indeed knew what they were talking about. Because if I had it my way I would implement my grandmother’s plan—I would issue one glass/per day for each person living in my household. And if they misplaced their glass they would have to locate it--they would not be allowed multiples. And at the end of the day they would be mandated to place the dirty glass in the dishwasher.

Somehow I feel I have better things to do than play bus boy.

But I will not institute my grandmother’s plan—even though I would like to. My children think I am crazy enough—no need for them to ponder putting me away in the crazy person’s home. Their time will come. One day they too will be mumbling under their breath and cleaning their children’s mess—unless they are wealthy enough to afford a maid—or if eccentricity skips a generation or two.