Back when the pie graph of my mothering duties had too wide a section devoted to being a referee I sought advice. One of the experienced women I queried had a passel of kids, finally clocking out at ten. Two suggestions she offered became prominent strategies in Odhner diplomacy. One was different rooms. The rule is simple. Two sparring kids must inhabit opposing spaces. Watching them negotiate ways with each other to get to the bathroom or the kitchen made me snicker. 

The other was called couches. Two kids had to sit down. They could get up when they both agreed to let the other up too. It was surprising how protracted this process could become. 

"I'll let you up." Pause. 

"Well you CAN"T get up!"

"Then you can't either!" Icy stares. 

While there were no visible restraints, both siblings stayed stuck for a long time. 

One of the chores that still irks me is emptying the dishwasher. Which is ridiculous considering that it takes about two minutes. Plus the fact that my hands do not even get wet in the washing process. But I have a tape in my head that drones over and over about how each member of the house should be taking regular turns doing dishes. Embedded in the inner recording is the voice of a friend I haven't seen in twenty years who mentioned that they have a rotating system of cleaning the kitchen and she is not on it at all. Mind you I am reasonably sure that her meals were more labor intensive than ours, which lean heavily on pasta and cut veggies, but that detail does not seem to be part of the sound loop between my ears. 

The other day I was placing clean bowls in the cupboard and dumping silverware in the drawer. My passive aggressive rebuke for being the Lone Emptier is to not sort forks and spoons. So there. My hands were thus gainfully employed but my mental dialogue was as skewed as the silverware. Then I thought about the couch. 

"I will let you off the hook for this chore. Whether or not you let me."

The notion buoyed me up. It felt refreshingly unencumbered. Rather than listen to the familiar diatribe... I sang.