It’s official. I am never cleaning my kids’ room again. I’m leaving it like this forever:
There is no point—it’s LITERALLY insane to continue doing it all the time. I read somewhere that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. I’ve cleaned that godforsaken room almost every day for the past four years, always with the same hope that I will someday be able to still see at least SOME portion of the floor a day or two later, but it has yet to happen that way. Insanity.
Forget a day or two later; I can’t even keep the room clean WHILE I am cleaning it because I have a tiny gremlin who follows me around, gleefully emptying toy bins behind my back not ten seconds after I’ve finished filling them up and putting them away.
And those bins! Those stupid, useless, toy storage bins. Is anything else on earth more of a joke than ANY form of organization system for a child’s bedroom?
Ikea, you ignorant slut!
Whoever seriously believes that putting rows and columns of orderly, colorful, possibly even labeled (HA!) toy storage bins in their child’s room will actually keep it neat for any period of time must not have a child of his or her own. Or else perhaps this naïve person has never witnessed the mischievous joy on the face of a child while they pointlessly yank out a bin and heave it violently to the floor, not even bothering to play with any of the spilled-out toys after the mess has been made.
Whenever I tell Little M to clean up his room, you know what he does? Well, first he spends a good hour in tantrum mode, crying and bitching that he “doesn’t know how to clean a room.” But then he takes everything, EVERY single object in sight, and dumps it all into a gigantic heap inside Little D’s crib. Gee, how helpful. Thanks for putting the box of diapers at the very, very bottom of the pile–won’t be needing those anytime soon, I’m sure.
That crib, by the way, is no longer functioning as a crib but a halfway house for stuffed animals.
I’m starting to believe that the only way to keep a kid’s room neat is to lock them out of it altogether. I suppose it would also help if toys were confined to a playroom of some sort, but not everyone is fortunate enough to have one of those. Obviously I’m not one of those fortunate people. Are you? Yes? Well screw you, go watch an episode of Cribs or something.
You think I’m kidding, but I’m dead serious (about not cleaning the kids’ room, not about screwing yourself). I am taking a stand. I will no longer be a slave to their little toy lair; tirelessly separating Matchbox cars from action figures, LEGO’s from Lincoln Logs, princesses from superheroes, markers from crayons, and Leap Pads from iPads, all the while wondering if the random little plastic pieces I keep finding everywhere belong to a dollhouse or a Batcave or some shit I threw away two years ago.
I will never again spend an hour of valuable time assembling an elaborate race track, only to return barely twenty minutes later and find it already broken up and destroyed, pieces scattered all over the room– under beds, behind the toy chest, in upturned buckets and basically everywhere BUT where I just left it after sixty long minutes of meticulous labor spent putting the damn thing together.
I will no longer be victim to cuts, bumps, bruises, scrapes, ankle twists, stubbed toes or possible concussions whilst attempting to clear a path through a dangerous toy-laden battlefield. I refuse to trip over train tracks, slip on coloring books, nor step directly on top of any awkwardly shaped dinosaurs with sharp, pointy tails pointed up toward the ceiling.
I will not be tempted to back my car over any more freakish, talking, stuffed dogs with no “off” button who randomly belt out the ABC’s or count to ten on maximum volume whenever something nearby has breathed or moved a pinkie. I will replace nary a single battery on anything that walks, talks, roars, jumps, hisses, barks, or urinates.
I will never again gag upon the unsettling discovery of some misplaced, putrid-smelling, half-empty baby bottle of rancid, clumpy milk hidden in a dark corner somewhere behind a dresser or bed for God only knows how long.
I will never again waste a whole afternoon folding, sorting, organizing, rearranging, and vacuuming every inch of my children’s disastrous bedroom, then watch in horror as they stampede through it and undo all of my hard work within milliseconds like two insane little Tasmanian Devils on crack.
I don’t even care if I can no longer FIND my children when they are playing in their room. All the better! Out of sight, out of mind, I say.
I swear I am never even touching a toy again.
Anyone else with me?