When Bryan and I were pre-teenagers, my dad insisted that we help out in the yard one weekend. In our rural childhood home, there were slopes covered with iceplant. Mixed with a bunch of weeds. Dad required us to get up early one Saturday morning (can I say that I was not/am not/will NEVER be a morning person?) to share in the family responsibility of caring for our home. Bryan and I were less than cooperative. We grumbled and groused. We wheedled, whined and whimpered in unison.
My poor daddy never asked us to work in the yard again. From that time on, Dad always recruited undocumented migrant workers to do the grunt work around our house (oops! there goes his chance to run for public office! ssshhh. don't tell.) These hard working men would ride their bikes to my house knowing that my Dad would feed them lunch and pay them fairly. Poor, poor daddy. I guess this way was easier than coping with the incessant complaints from his ungrateful children. The very ones he pinned his hopes for his old age on. His firstborn. And his son. We were supposed to work the soil along side him in harmony and helpfulness. Not.
Fast forward to this summer. Bob is working relentlessly without a word of complaint, making our home lovely. And he expects his wife and kids to pitch in as well. On one of the 100+ degree days, after planting for hours, I snivelled that he didn't love me like my daddy does: