Lose / lose

Apparently today was "spirit day" at the boy's school.

I didn't know that.  I might have known that if I actually read all the paperwork that comes home in their folders.  But, YOLO, and also, HATE PAPERWORK.

This spirit day consisted of wearing something sports related.

"MOM?!  Where is my new Browns shirt I got for my birthday?"

"Um, it's short sleeved so I think I put it with your summer clothes.  There are two white baskets next to your dresser that I put your shorts and t-shirts in.  One is yours, the other is Owen's.  Look in there."

"MOM?!  It's not in here!"

I walk in and he is literally throwing clothes over his shoulder, as if he were a cartoon of a little boy looking through a basket of clothes to find something.

"Are you sure you're looking in your basket and not Owen's?"

"YES!  Why can't you keep better track of my stuff?  Why did you lose it?!"

"Whoa, there.  If you want to make sure your stuff doesn't get lost, you better be responsible for your own clothes."

"I WOULD if you would have told me that you were going to lose it."

"I didn't do it on purpose, Sam.  So I couldn't tell you it was going to happen.  If you want to make sure it doesn't, feel free to take over the laundry."

"I don't see why you can't just do a better job."

At this point I feel the way you would probably feel if you bought someone a nice shirt, washed said shirt along with all the other clothes you bought that person, folded all those clothes and put them away, and then that person took a poop on your face.

I am not ruining the curve on this parenting thing, I'll tell you that much.  I have not the first idea how to teach gratitude and respect.  My first instinct is to kick him in the face, but I can't, and I don't really have a second instinct.

I'll take suggestions.

That don't require work.

Because I'm tired.

I have all this goddamned laundry to do, see?

Also?  His shirt?  Was RIGHT FUCKING THERE IN HIS GODDAMNED BASKET WHERE I SAID IT WAS.