I'm not proud I let him live in that room. After mistakenly believing it would disgust him eventually and he'd be compelled to put it to rights, I couldn't take it any longer.
Just one room--The Boy's--wielded a full 50 gallon drum liner of junk, mostly paper. I Shitake mushroom you not. But that's not the worst part--the hardest part was getting under his bed. It's too heavy for me to move on my own and now that I've packed on a few pounds (it would be unwise to comment here), I cannot slide under to reach all the junk.
Let's just say I came out of that experience with a bump on the noggin and back spasms, and leave it at that.
I took the rest of the night to recoup with the plan to start on the girls' the next day. Surely, it'd be much easier.
I was about to get educated, ya'll.
Somehow, they managed to hide their slovenly ways by shoving stuff in the corners, behind and under the dresser, and in their closet.
And can someone please explain to me why one must empty an entire drawer for one (bleeping) shirt?! And did you break your arms in the process?! PUT THE REST BACK!
*Takes several deep breaths*
After organizing their bookshelf (and spotting several books from the If You Give a series) in an experience that left me with an eye twitch and seizures, I tweeted out that I was going to write a children's book called If You Give a Mom a Trash Bag.
So, I did. But, uh, it's not really kid friendly.
If you give a mom a trash bag, she will race to your bedroom with menace and glee.
Once there, she will step on one of the million pointy Legos littering your floor.
After she drops into the fetal position and blows out both her ears and lungs with her cursing, she will try to snatch you bald.
You will dart to and fro to save yourself, thus giving her motion sickness and a homicidal determination to catch you.
Blinded by that urge, she will trip over the wheeled spindly leggy thing of your desk chair.
And in the instant before her face makes out with the carpet, she’ll notice the mountains of debris dwelling under your bed.
That will send her into a fresh rage.
She will attack all your possessions with gusto, cackling like a maniacal witch on All Hallow’s Eve, while you rock yourself in a corner and beg her not to torch your favorite collection of hairballs.
But chances are your pleas will drown under the roar of the trash bag as it digests your life's possessions.
So. Moral of the story, kiddies?
I told you it wasn't kid friendly. How do you motivate your kids to clean up after themselves? Threats? Bribes? Tossing?