Land mines
“Wook, Daddy! YEGOs!!” says my son, holding up the Folgers can of plastic toy bricks I had hidden, unsuccessfully I might add, behind the couch. Then, in typical fashion, he pours the can’s entire contents all over the floor, once again thwarting my attempts to clean up.
I’ve always liked having things neat and orderly. I remember, as a kid, constantly straightening the magazines on the coffee table, making sure that everything was at perfect right angles. It made me happy.
I was somewhat of a dork as a kid. A neat dork, though.
Today I’m not as dorky, but I’m still what many people refer to as a “neat freak.” Although, I’m not so sure what’s so freaky about liking things clean. Cleanliness, as they say, is next to Godliness. And I’m pretty sure the Big Guy keeps his place nice and tidy up there. At least I hope so. Otherwise Eternity’s going to seem like forever.
Living with young children has been somewhat of a challenge for me. Kids are inherently messy; I knew this going in, of course. But I was naive enough to think that I’d be able to keep them in check. I soon learned that that trying to keep up with their messes is fruitless. It’s like trying to bail water out of the Titanic.
With a spoon.
For a while, when it was just my daughter, it wasn’t too bad. She never really cared much for toys, and it was easy to pick up the occasional baby doll or picture book.
Exhibit A
Then along came my son, a.k.a. Hurricane Isaac. He loves toys. He loves smashing them. He loves throwing them. Heck, he loves eating them. He especially likes scattering them all over the house. At one point, fed up with the chaos, I decided to keep his toy cupboard locked all the time just so he wouldn’t keep dumping his puzzles and books and everything all over the place (see Exhibit A).
Now before you start harping about what a horrible father I am…chill out. I don’t keep his toy cupboard locked all the time anymore.
I open it for 15 minutes every other Tuesday.
I blame my wife somewhat for my son’s messy tendencies. She’s a Mess Enabler (M.E.) If she’s in the kitchen cooking dinner and Isaac decides to ransack the Tupperware cabinet, that’s just fine with her. Or, if she’s working in her office and Isaac wants to rummage through her garbage can like a homeless person—again, no big deal. Whatever keeps him busy, that’s what she always says.
Let’s she if she’s whistling the same tune when her son’s in Slobs Anonymous.
And it’s not just toys. More food has ended up on my dining room floor than in my children’s mouths. If we had a dog, it would be morbidly obese by now. “Lean over the table!” I’m always telling them, to no avail. Even if my son somehow manages to keep everything on his high-chair table during the meal, as soon as he’s full he either pushes his plate over the edge or swipes all the food onto the floor in a sudden and rather disturbing frenzy.
He’s not right in the head, that one.
One of the more cleaner days
I’ve pretty much given up on the idea of having a clean house. What’s the point? While I’m putting away the blocks, Isaac’s off somewhere dumping out all of his Matchbox cars. While I’m organizing her dolls on her bed, according to height and hair color, Antonella’s leaving a trail of cookie crumbs all over the house.
I think they may be trying to kill me.
One day, people always tell me, when my kids move out and head off to college and the house is empty, I’ll miss the messiness. And sometimes I think, you know what, maybe they’re right. Then I feel the searing pain as a sharp plastic block embeds itself into my bare foot, and I immediately snap back to reality.
One day, many, many moons from now, I’ll finally have the clean house of my dreams, where everything is orderly and in its place. Until then I’ll just have to learn to live with crumbs and LEGOs underfoot; with wooden blocks and toy cars strewn about; with books and magazines—GULP!—at awkward angles on the coffee table.
Stay strong, Val. Stay strong.
