I have a rare condition. Yes, it was self diagnosed. My condition is, if I don’t see it, it doesn’t exist. I’m not talking about faith or religious thoughts or anything like that. I’m talking about messes. Huge, ginormous, larger than life disaster areas that make you stop breathing if you think about the act of cleaning it. Like, the basement/playroom, otherwise known as disaster zone B. (Disaster zone A is another post altogether)
In an act to regain control of the playroom, I did a major makeover in the basement. I painted, bought really cute shelving, made a chalkboard on the wall with a really cute boarder, organized the books and toys. I made it adorable!
The kids were so excited about it. We had their birthday parties down there and had a great time decorating. But as most things are around here, it was short lived. It took maybe 10 minutes for it to become so bad that they stopped going down there. I spent 2 hours with them putting it back together and again it was good for a while, until WHAM, back to a disaster.
I begged the kids to clean up after themselves. I pleaded with the kids to clean up after themselves. Nothing. I explained how simple it was to just put one toy back when you’re done. It’s clean and then it gets messed up and then they all saunter upstairs complaining that they’re bored and have nothing to do. I made a craft table. I made a cleaning chart. You should hear the ailments that they come up with. “It feels like my arms are falling off.” “But mommy, my back is broken!”
The best by far is my second daughters response. “Mommy, you treat us like slaves. SLAVES!” “Honey, I just want you to clean up your things. You made the mess. And you are not a slave. You are a functioning member of this household.” “No, we ARE slaves. Slaves don’t get paid for their work and WE are NOT getting paid!” Shes 6. I’m doomed.
So now the mess doesn’t exist. I blocked it out of my mind. I just step over strips of paper and baskets of blocks to get to the storage room. Laaadidah mess, you are not here.
I have two whole floors of ground to cover in my own cleaning regimen. That includes toilets, dishes and laundry. If you add the basement to the equationIwould be the slave. And if I stayed downstairs with them the whole time, it would totally defeat the purpose of a playroom. I would never get my own chores done.
Bottom line is: Sorry kids. I don’t know of any such playroom. I have a faint recollection of some wonderfully clean and organized place. Maybe if you show it to me the way I left it, I’ll remember.