Spring clean with your kids

 

Kids are messy, there’s no denying it. I recently read another mother’s blog; she described how she was planning to teach her son to pick up after himself. She asked for advice; the responses she received left me utterly depressed. Who are these people that know so much? Is there a secret mommy-school that I know nothing about?
One even suggested it’s all about modeling; as if my kids are messy because I am. Well!
Trust me, the mess my kids produce? I couldn’t do it if I tried.
Of course, I, too, try to teach my kids to pick up their toys. I have tried yelling, wishful thinking, and telling my husband it’s all his fault. None of these approaches seem to work. I’m not sure why.

Most of the time I put up with the fact that my house looks like a toy store; I have many places to “put things in” and even though my kids don’t make use of them, I am able to rush through the living room (okay, and the rest of the house) and throw everything in its rightful spot within five minutes after they go to bed. Which is fine by me; I want the toys to be put away, and I don’t really care who does it. I do it faster, so there you go.

However (there’s always a however), there is one room in the house I really struggle with. I guess every parent has an Achilles heel; something that drives you so maniacally crazy there’s no stopping yourself from wanting to strangle your kids. Figuratively speaking.

For me, that’s the basement. My kids insist on unpacking every single item that is in storage downstairs, and putting it somewhere else. I find the weirdest things in the weirdest places; it’s impossible to see the floor, and they keep breaking stuff. It’s a cesspool. It’s all the circles of Hell at once, a dark, disgusting breeding ground of filth; and I hate it from the bottom of my heart.

My husband recently decided I shouldn’t go downstairs anymore. This way, I won’t see the mess and I won’t have to get upset. I explained to him it doesn’t work that way, because I still know the mess is there. Instead, it’s the kids that should stay upstairs.
To be honest, it wasn’t always so bad. I’ve organized my basement completely, several times. Now I’m thinking I should just get some boards and hammer the door shut. Or maybe I should take all the toys that have migrated down there and take them to a homeless shelter. A really nice bonfire in the backyard sounds attractive, too. Wait; is that legal within city limits?

Then it dawns on me; I brought this on myself. After all, what’s more tempting to a six- and a three-year old than boxes and totes and hampers and shelves with endless secret forbidden things? Of course these boxes need to be opened, its contents explored; what did I expect? And who collected all that stuff in the first place? That’s right: me. I came to this country thirteen years ago with one suitcase; suddenly I am embarrassed that I even need storage.

I am going to clean it up; again. But this time, I won’t do it because my kids are so messy; I’ll do it because I know there is much down there that I don’t need, and it should be donated, recycled, given away to people who will actually use it. I may not always be very successful in teaching my children to clean up, but at least they are, in a roundabout way, capable of teaching me something.