In January of 2016, I posted a photo on Facebook of an empty toilet paper roll. Feeling sarcastic and witty, I wrote, “I wonder if 2016 will be the year my kids learn how to change a roll of toilet paper. Fingers crossed.”

I wish I could chat with younger me and tell her to keep her expectations low.

For the record, my children are not prehistoric monsters. They have their faults, sure, but they enjoy modern scientific advancements like cooked meat, hand soap, and electricity. They’ve never contracted scurvy, so that’s a win.

My kids are also not lazy. They have plenty of motivation to plead with me for an extension on their curfews; they have an abundance of energy to argue with each other about phone charging cords; and their “can’t stop, won’t stop” attitude over who gets the last slice of pizza leaves me speechless.

I do have high expectations for my kids. When they each turned 12, one of their birthday presents was an introduction to the washer and dryer. They were officially responsible for their own laundry from that day forward. And while they sometimes leave the house in still-damp, wrinkled attire, I have no regrets.

They help around the house, they know their way around the kitchen, they do homework and juggle jobs and activities.

But, for reasons I cannot explain, the absolute hill they choose to die on is changing a roll of toilet paper.

I make sure we always have enough. I stock our bathrooms with extra rolls. I have even walked each child through the actual process of changing a roll. They nod and make murmurs of agreement, but their glazed eyes tell a different story. They don’t care.

Just this morning, I went to the spare bathroom to put a new bottle of soap on the counter and found, to my complete lack of surprise but utter frustration, an empty toilet paper roll in the holder.

A new roll was sitting on the floor, taunting me, reminding me that for everyone else in my family “good enough” is just leaving it within arm’s reach, wall dispenser be damned.

I try not to lose my temper. I offer up prayers for grace. I remember that kindness covers a multitude of sins. But those words feel hollow when all you want to do is wipe yourself without having reach into the bathroom cabinet while in a squat position and grab a roll of toilet paper.

There’s always 2021. Here’s hoping.

Read more Seven Months into the Pandemic essays.