Disaster Area: Proceed with Caution

I was a messy child.  I was more than a messy child, and into my teenage years, I was worse.  If we're being honest, I'm pretty sure had any American president ever set foot in our house, my room would have been declared a national disaster area.  The floor was rarely seen.  It even came to the point where my walls coudn't be seen due to the magazine clippings and assorted items I hung on them.  My room was like the inside of a recycle bin with a clothing explosion in the midst of it.  Yes.  It was bad.

My room was a thorn in my mother's side for her entire life.  She asked me to keep my room clean.  She told me to keep my room clean.  She begged me to keep my room clean.  She punished me for not keeping my room clean.  Her constant chiding annoyed me.  I thought her requests were stupid and uptight.  "It's my room, " I would say.  "It doesn't bother me."  And she would eventually just close my door and hope that nothing crawled out from under the wreckage.

I never understood it.  I thought it was so ridiculous, this NEED for organization and cleanliness.  I thought it was a waste of time.  OH MY...how times have changed.  You see, I grew out of my sloppy ways.  I actually took it pretty far into the other direction.  I developed a NEED for the organization and cleanliness.  I liked to have a place for everything, and everything to be in its place.  In college, my roommates found it hilarious when I made a sign to hang over the kitchen sink that said, "Please put your dishes in the dishwasher."  Yes, I did.  I was so anal, it irritated me to no end when someone else didn't hold the same standards of cleanliness that I did.  Ah, grasshopper...the student had become the teacher.  Classic case. I only wish my mother had lived long enough to see the new and improved "cleaner" version of me. 

Here's the kicker though.  I am 100% certain that the tables are being turned on me...and perhaps even at the hands of my dearly departed mother.  You see, my children make the greatest most catastrophic messes of all time.  They destroy rooms in a matter of minutes.  They are like tiny little tornadoes that tear through our home leaving piles of toy and clothing rubble behind.  And their rooms are the WORST.   They are five and two.  FIVE and TWO and they are already turning their rooms into what my mother would call a "pig sty."  When they play dress-up, they scatter the clothes all over the floor until no carpet can be seen.  And then they leave it.  They leave the room and move on to the next thing, without even giving it a second thought.  And THEN, they could walk right back into that same disastrous room, as if nothing were out of place and proceed with normal activities such as napping or getting a pair socks from a drawer.  It does not phase them in the least.  Nothing does.  It's like they are blind to all messes.

Now, I'm not nearly as uptight as I used to be.  I honestly used to follow kids around at playdates picking up after them.  Like the instant a toy hit the floor, I would put it away...so much so that they child would turn around to retrieve said toy and it would have already been placed back into the proper receptacle.  I'm pretty sure a lot of moms thought I was crazy.  I have since loosened up quite a lot.  I don't mind toys on the floor here and there.  I can handle the playroom being out of sorts. It's the giant disastrous messes that kill me.  Oh man do they kill me.

It's like a never-ending battle.  Do you ever feel like this??  Little E will literally walk into a room, dump out an entire bin full of tiny pieces, and move on to the next thing.  Repeatedly.  Miss A is more the culprit of the messy bedroom.  She is a pack rat.  She wants to keep everything.  Every little trinket and happy meal toy.  Every scrap of paper given to her by a classmate at school.  It all piles up on her dresser, her nightstand, and on every other surface she can find until I can sweep in like a secret spy and throw some of it away. 

My dear husband is wonderful.  He picks up after everyone, although begrudgingly at times.  The problem with him is that he doesn't appreciate my organizational skills.  You see, I have a bin (with a lid) and a LABEL for everything.  EVERYTHING.  I will spend hours painstakingly separating each and every little Polly Pocket purse from the Barbie accessories.  I retrieve the lone strawberry shortcake figurine from the Little People bin...and so on and so forth.  I put a lot of time into my highly organized system.  And my husband, love him to death, but he will just throw everything into the closest container.  It makes me want to SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAM!!!!!

I have this theory that my mom is playing the role of the revenge-seeking puppet master.  I can just see her pulling the strings as Little E runs through a room like the Tasmanian Devil, tossing random objects and leaving behind scene of mass destruction.  I hear her voice echoing in my mind when I say to Miss A, "Do you really want to keep this deflated helium balloon?"  I guess this is what some would call: sweet justice.