This morning after my beautiful children misplaced a library book that needed to be returned, I decreed that it was time for them to clean out their rooms. Five minutes later, Presto! it was done. I clarified that this was to be a thorough cleaning including the toy bins, under the beds, and in the closets (which apparently they think also should be called “toy bins”). Noises of general disgruntlement followed, and off they trudged upstairs.

After about an hour of foot-dragging, I heard Georgie upstairs telling Anika he would come “help” her clean her room if she returned the favor when they were done (her room is bigger than his and Trinity’s, and Anika shares it with a three year old and an 18 month old who are not terribly skillful at cleaning). Uh huh.

Two hours later my husband went to go check on them. Usually whip cracking is my area of expertise, and I typically set the timer for them so that they don’t spend three hours fiddling around when they should be working. However, since these are the days of the crumminess of pregnancy, having the kids upstairs being quiet and out of my hair for three hours trumps my guilt over allowing them to fool around instead of instilling diligence (hey, they have many more years of me yelling at them to look forward to. I’m sure they’ll live through the disappointment).

Shortly after my husband arrived for inspection, vast amounts of yelling erupted from the second floor followed by copious quantities of wailing. A few moments later my hubby reappeared wearing a rather ferocious scowl and asking what was the matter with those children, to which I gave my standard reply: “brain damage.”

Apparently my terrifically helpful eight year old son had interpreted the word “clean” to mean “take my sister’s mattress off her bed, flip it over in the middle of her room onto the top of her toy shelves, which will knock them over and create the equivalent of hurricane damage in her bedroom.” Happily, his father seems to have cleared up that misconception.

This evening as I finally attacked the laundry devil that had been smirking at me all day, I discovered the second component of my son’s cleaning plan: take anything made of cloth or that might be lying within two feet of the hamper and throw it over the stair rail in the laundry pile (our washer is right below the stair landing, so that serves in place of a laundry chute). This categorical sweeping included a book, blanket, cardboard, and the usual quantity of clean, folded clothing.

I also discovered upon removing a load from the washer that my five year old daughter had pinned a silver sheriff’s badge to her shirt and neglected to take it off. As I was trying to figure out how that got by me, I noticed that it was pinned to the inside of her shirt. Mystery solved? At least this can’t be blamed on my son. Well, actually, I’m sure it could…

Rachel

Written by Rachel Shubin ~ Fiendish friend for effusive fun!