Remember when you were little, and you thought monsters lived under your bed? Guess what lives under my boys’ bed?
Inspired by all the blog posts of my more organized artist friends, I decided to brave the room we publicly call “the boys room” and privately call “that $#%^& mess they call a room why don’t they ever %^&$% clean up their toys those rotten kids”.
I got through each dresser drawer with only a few sprints to the sink to wash my hands. I lovingly sorted their books and other possessions on the shelves. Games and any game pieces that I found on the shelves were smartly stacked in the closet.
And then, I looked under the bed. Why oh why?
I pulled all the toy boxes out. Hmmm, not so bad. About every 4 months, I go through the toys and take a bag or two to the thrift shop, so the toy boxes weren’t as full as I remembered from previous underbed expeditions. Couple that with the fact that as the boys have gotten older, their interests have switched from large primary colored plastic bits to tiny expensive micro chip bits; thus, the toy boxes were manageable.
Of course, there were the usual empty juice boxes and dried up orange and slimey banana peels, because we don’t allow the heathens to eat in their room, so they hide the evidence under the bed. And when Mommy says lights out for the fourth time, her voice gets kind of scary, and the books being slammed shut in respectful obedience to this loving bedtime ritual, well, the books must also get nervous and skitter down under the bed. I filled up half a shelf with those nervous nellie books. Of course, the library benefits from this cleaning, because I found the 3 library books which have been lost for 2 months (in spite of claims that those books were 1. never checked out of the library, 2. must have been checked out for my reading pleasure because the boys have never heard of them, 3. blank stares) And yet, all this pales in comparison to what I found today:
15 socks. Fifteen! Now I realize that what with worrying about the war in Iraq, the housing bust, and the drought threatening most of the west coast, that it’s asking for some real mental toughness for a kid to take his dirty socks and put them in the dirty clothes hamper. But FIFTEEN socks? Is that a record?
Is it any wonder why there’s always a certain aroma lingering in their lair?