Peter McKay

About a year or so ago, my wife and I decided that we were probably doing our kids a disservice by letting them off so easy in life. We made a decision to assign each kid … a chore.

We've actually produced five children, but only three still live at home. Our two oldest boys took turns taking out the garbage when they lived at home. That may not seem like that much, but you have to understand that: 1) Our garbage cans are way out at the back of the house, in a big corral I built to hide them. 2) They're dented old plastic cans with no tops, snapped-off handles and holes in the bottom. 3) We have a vital and rabidly hungry population of raccoons.

By the time trash night comes around, our carefully tied bags have all been ripped open and picked through — and then left out in the sun to fester, a smorgasbord from hell. The boys had to take a deep breath when they first opened the wooden door of the trash shed (we called it the P-U Corral), holding their breath till they kicked each can to the curb. The job stunk, and often so did our boys, but it built some character.

Parents are often easier on later kids than they were on the first ones. Growing up, my parents had so many kids that we looked more like cult than a family. I was the seventh of nine. (I know, I sound like a Borg.) My older brothers and sisters had to do without and worked around the house like little serfs. By the time I came along, my parents were tired and had lost interest. As long as I kept my mouth shut, they didn't even seem to realize I existed. I almost had to remind them who I was when I left for college.

So about a year ago, we sat the three kids down and informed them they'd be working for their keep. Our 15-year-old son would follow the path of his older brothers and be the family trashman. And the next day, after the real trashmen emptied the cans, one of our 13-year-old twin daughters would be responsible for bringing in the cans and making sure that they got back in the P-U corral.

If anyone forgot a chore, serious punishment would follow.

At this point, the conversation broke down into a big argument over what an appropriate punishment might be, with each kid proposing some penalty that would cost a sibling more than it would them. I called it all to a halt, saying that I would think of a punishment that was guaranteed to chill the bones.

Over the past year, the system has worked — sort of. I only ask my son three times before he gets moving on trash night. (Actually, I "ask" twice. The third time is more of a scary, threatening growl.) And it took a while (a long while), but our daughter has finally gotten pretty good at getting the cans back behind the house.

Last week, though, a major brouhaha developed over the whole trash arrangement. There were a lot of cans that week, and our son asked his sister for help in taking out the trash. Like any normal sister, she refused. Nobody, she declared, helped her when it was time to bring in the cans. And like any sibling squabble, it escalated through the roof within seconds, with accusations and angry recriminations flying so fast you'd think it was an episode of "The View." Our daughter was starting to lose the argument on points, and was a smart remark from a TKO, when her twin sister stepped in to help.

"Well," she said to her brother, "You never do your chore without Dad yelling! I hear him!"

Suddenly, the battle came to a halt, as both combatants turned on her.

"Hey," they said together, "What's YOUR chore?" I thought for a moment, and then stepped into the room.

"That's a really good question," I said. "Just what is your chore?"

She backed away, open-mouthed, and then put her hands on the side of her head and screamed like the "Home Alone" kid.

"Nooooo!" she moaned. "One whole year, and nobody noticed! Now I blew it!" She ran out of the room, chased closely by her siblings.

I've spent the past week or so trying to come up with a chore that not only will stink, but will also make up for a year's worth of shirking. I wonder how quiet she'll be able to keep when I present her new tools: a can of Comet cleanser and a toilet brush.

To find out more about Peter McKay, please visit www.creators.com.

COPYRIGHT 2010 CREATORS.COM