When Clean is Mean

     Yesterday I cleaned out the boys' room while they were in school. Picked up every single Lego piece on the floor. One or two may not have escaped the vacuum cleaner's wrath. Everynight I wade through hundreds of them just to make it to their bed to kiss them goodnight. We talk about safety and all but still thousands lay there like carpeting. I may not have plantar fasciitis after all. I just need to pull out these multi-colored plastics out of my heels and then I can walk straight again.

     We come home from school and I show them their immaculate room. And God help me - Jared threw a fit and Kyle of course took his cue from his older brother. We're talking throes of crying and weeping, feet-stomping and fists beating on the pillows because things were not left as they were and what a mean Mom I was for cleaning up the room!  It was ridiculously comical! I didn't break anything they had created, mind you. Just put all the loose pieces in one (or more) buckets.

   Yet honestly? The room didn't look right spotless and Lego-free. I may just do penance by sorting Lego pieces by color. Besides, I have a few hours to myself when they play with them blasted pieces. Down the road, I may actually need therapy when  their room is clutter-free from toys.

(pic art by ZenSue)