My younger son constantly leaves a step-stool exactly in the spot where he used it.
In front of the kitchen sink (where he washed grapes). In front of the entertainment center (where he got down the CD he wanted to hear). In front of his dresser (where he played with the dollhouse that he inherited from me and that sits on top of the dresser).
“Please…(maybe it’s more like puh-leassssse!) put.away.the.step-stool,” I say at least twice or three times a day, using the same exasperated voice as I do when I remind the fellas around here to put down the toilet seat.
The other day I looked at him. Really looked at him. Saw him.
He’s the shortest person in the house. Of course he’s always using a step-stool.
He’s also a very busy short person in the house — keeping up with his mama, his daddy and his big brother. So he may not *always* remember to put away the step-stool. A guy gets busy.
And I looked at myself. In the scheme of things, I really don’t need to think it’s the end of the world when I come upon a step-stool left out in my house. I can remember that life can be tough when you’re the shortest in the house and everything feels 100 feet high.
It’s all about perspective: it’s okay if you don’t put away your step-stool.
Let the folks with the longer legs handle that.