It was Tom’s biggest complain. I did it; he hated it.
He even went as far as to say that it, nagging that is, created cancer. *sigh* I’ll leave that accusation alone today. I’ve waited too long for the wound to scab over to pick at it – even gently.
These days, it’s BoBo who complains about my nagging. Like father, like son I guess. He can’t see that he pushes me to the point of complaint and then continues to push even further. Never does the fact that I’ve worked all day only to shift from that job to the job of parenting. After a full day’s work, kid shuttling, and sitting in the cold waiting for football practice to end, I’m exhausted. So when I reach for the frying pan well after the neighboring houses have finished washing their dinner dishes I don’t want to find it dirty, or missing. Nor do I want to find the food which was intended for the meal to be used up (remnants in the trash.) And when I do… I complain. ‘Cuz I am tired, it’s late, and I have hungry mouths to feed – even if I’m not anymore.
I leave the pile of bills for yet another day – when I have a bit more energy and, in doing so, I hear them nagging at me all through the night. Nag, Nag, Nag.