I recently gave up trying to keep my silverware drawer organized.

I was rushing to unload the dishwasher, trying to move all knives and other potentially harmful items out of my toddler’s reach. As I tossed another handful of spoons into the drawer, it occurred to me.

This no longer looks like my silverware drawer.

You know those drawers that are perfectly sorted? Not only are the forks separate from the spoons, but the small forks never touch the big forks. Every piece sparkles and nary a water spot can be found. There’s also no dust and no food crumbs clinging to the bottom of the tray.

That used to be my drawer.

But now?

Pieces from three or four different sets of flatware make their home in any compartment they choose. Those forks that used to shine and never display a water spot? Well, now I just hope the spots are truly water spots and not evidence that my son stuck every piece in his mouth and then tossed it back in the drawer.

Again.

Cute little multi-colored plastic spoons and sporks stay obediently put in the back compartment. My son has no interest in trying out those utensils. Maybe the grown-ups should switch to plastic – at least then we’d know they were clean.

When I get past the chaos of the haphazard compartments and the questionable spots, I’m still disturbed by the sticky surprise that is better to not think about… Asking questions like “What is that?” and “how long has it been there?” That’ll just gross me out and make me a little crazy.

Or maybe it’ll inspire one of those cleaning binge sessions I’m prone to every once in awhile. When I scrub the entire house from top to bottom. The house that I’ve spot cleaned and tried to keep under control with minimal effort for the past few weeks.

Who am I kidding? It’s been months.

I’m sure if I can force every grease stain to relinquish its hold, every dust bunny to give up its hiding place, then I’ll feel a sense of control in life.

But then I find my son splattering his yogurt all over the floor I just mopped. That same floor is littered with six or seven slightly used spoons he tried out before settling on the one he’s now using to create a Picasso on my floor.

His face displays utter glee.

My control is gone. Or the semblance of control I thought I was gaining. So, I mutter something defeated and woeful about how I used to have control in life.

And a clean house.

And an organized silverware drawer.

And then I pick up an only slightly used spoon and grab another yogurt from the fridge.

I guess I’ll just have a snack.