Tag Archives: cleaning

Welcome, Foolish Mortals

Lately we’ve been acting as hosts to ghosts.  They’re actually very well known ghosts- perhaps you’ve heard of them?  Their names are “Not me” and “I don’t know”.

Not me and I don’t know have been extremely busy spirits, doing everything from tearing up the boys’ room to finishing off 3 bowls worth of cereal in one sitting.  Its extraordinary.  I know if I had died and had time on MY hands, I’d kick back and relax, but not these guys.  They’re constantly up to something.

Just recently these pesky poltergeists have even started to follow the boys to school!  I had naively thought that MAYBE the ghosts would take their own Summer vacation-

-yeah, I know its not Summer anymore, but its still Summer-y weather.  I thought they might be as confused as me and take a late vacation-

but there was no such luck.  If anything, they seem to have increased their activity!  I’ve almost started to wonder if our home is the newest spot for the ghost dimension- like Fort Lauderdale for the netherworld.

Rather than take an extended holiday, though, Not me and I don’t know started school with my boys and began a new year of shenanigans.  When asked why he was lying under his desk instead of sitting in his chair, Bug replied,”I don’t know,” which -I’m assuming means,”I don’t know” told him to do it, the naughty spirit.  And when asked who’s fault it was for Camo not being able to find his PE clothes, both boys answered,”Not me.”

I’ll admit, I’m a little worried that we’ve gotten so much supernatural interference in this house, but I’m hopeful that sooner or later, those restless spirits will find their peace and leave this place.

Until that day, though, its very apparent that Boystown will be hosting travelers from the Great Beyond.

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To Whom It May Concern

Before every birthday or holiday, I am asked what the boys would like to receive.  This year I’m beating you all to the punch and posting this.

 

Yesterday I got out of bed- MY bed- and stepped on a Lego, kicked a Hot Wheel, and tripped over a block all before I reached my bedroom door.

After I got past the baby gate -which had OBVIOUSLY not done its job- I collided with a xylophone, 3 balls, a dump truck, and a toy drum stick.

When I got to the boys’ room, I had to yell for Bug to wake up- “yell”, because I didn’t want to wade through the sea of toys that carpeted their bedroom floor.  When it was apparent that no amount of hollering was going to wake up my sweet middle child, I inched my way through the toy Chernobyl toward his bed.  Even taking care to only step on soft, fluffy items didn’t save my feet from being gouged by a Spongebob figure and more Legos.

Part me hoped that he would stub his toe on a Thomas the Train figure so that MAYBE he would realize the need for cleanliness, but as I watched him deftly maneuver his way through the maze like a professional ballerina, I knew it wouldn’t happen.  This wasn’t his first dance in the ring- he’d long ago figured out where the land mines were.

After I left, I passed back by the dining room where a remote control car -sans remote- and an Optimus Prime mask sat waiting under the table.  I also happened to notice more colorful blocks with that well known logo that had been pushed to the wall in a long line, as if waiting for their turn to be a part of a sculpture that would never come to be.

And a glance at the wine cabinet revealed that it now housed -not wine bottles- but crayons.

I really needed coffee at this point, but a look at the kitchen -which was APPARENTLY the “happening” meeting place for MORE Hot Wheels- persuaded me to wait a bit longer.

After the older boys left for school, I went to turn on some PBS for the Mini Master so I could finally make some coffee, but I couldn’t find the remote.  I looked under the couch and found 3 more Hot Wheels.  I looked in the laundry room and found a plush Woody doll.  I looked near the office area and found 2 fake phones and a couple of plastic dinosaurs.

I finally found it, though.  It was in the laundry basket in our room, along with “Creepy Cat”, 2 ‘Little People’ animals, and another car, all covered by clean clothes.

After the boys got home, I demanded they clean.  I had just spent a good couple of days straightening up, and they destroyed it in 1, so this time THEY were cleaning.  Their lives -and my sanity- depended on it.  So they did.  They did a pretty good job of it, too.

But last night, when I went to tuck them in, I waded through a fresh sea of toys and stepped on the remote for that remote control car I’d seen earlier.  I put up the baby gate to the bathroom and saw a multitude of bath toys everywhere.

And everywhere I went, Legos created a path, like a trail of plastic bread crumbs, marking my path to freedom.

Now, I’m sure many of you would read that and say,”Well, kids need toys and they OBVIOUSLY make use of them,” but I feel I must point out some crucial info:

  1. Nicholas was the Lego and Hot Wheel culprit, and he wasn’t playing with them, as I later found out; he was using them as projectiles to bomb Stever the cat with.
  2. And neither of the older boys could find their shoes earlier on in the day (Nicholas likes to wear everyone’s shoes around the house so we can play the fun game of ‘Where are they?’), so the boys had torn all the toys BACK out to search for their much needed footwear.

To top it all off, once home, after finishing up with their chores and schoolwork and what not, both had claimed they were “bored”.  They’re both grounded from video games currently for unrelated reasons, so I told them,”You have a million toys- go play.”  Did they?  No.  I later found them making paper airplanes while the Mini Master walked around with his brother’s underwear on his head, growling.

So, the moral of my little story: they do not need toys, games, blocks, Legos, crayons, etc.  My feet and sanity cannot take it anymore.

Don’t want to show up empty handed?  Get them printer paper, or -apparently- underwear.  Please.

Maybe that won’t be the gift that has them shrieking from excitement, but I guarantee you, a week from the day, the rest of the toys will be strewn about, broken, missing parts, maybe never even having been played with, and there my boys will be.

Sitting among the chaos.

With paper airplanes.

And underwear on their heads.

Spring Cleaning time- grab your survival gear

I really don’t follow all the “in’s and out’s” of groundhogs, so I’m not really sure if its officially Spring or still Winter, but in this house?  We’re Spring Cleaning.  Yep.  Groundhogs be damned, we’re breakin’ out the Swiffers over here.

Honestly, though, I’m a TAD OCD on the cleaning front, so “Spring Cleaning” is almost a weekly thing, but around this time of year, I can blame it on new grass, baby animals and the like.

Yay for excuses!

It can be kind of scary when cleaning certain areas of my home, though.  If you haven’t read it, I wrote a post a while back on how bad things can get over HERE, and I meant every word.  I’ll admit- I only have boys so my experience is a little bit skewed. I  can’t compare it to what it would be like raising girls, but they (boys) just SEEM dirtier.  I mean, even nursery rhymes have pointed out how much more disgusting they can be:

What are little boys made of?
What are little boys made of?

Frogs and snails
And puppy-dogs’ tails,
That’s what little boys are made of.
What are little girls made of?
What are little girls made of?

Sugar and spice
And everything nice,
That’s what little girls are made of.

See?  Mother Goose was a wise old bird..

Seriously, though, no matter what you have -boy or girl- and no matter what room you’re cleaning, you KNOW there are certain areas you skip due to time, patience, etc.  Those places that you’re pretty certain don’t have crumbs that will attract bugs and that aren’t a priority because, well, guests won’t generally check there. Sure, you tell yourself that you’ll get to them one day, but, well, they aren’t a priority, sooo… later.  You’ll get to them LATER.  After all, the kids rooms have mold growing and something moved in the fridge…

For me?  Today was my “later” and the place?  Behind the TV stand.  Normally, this wouldn’t even be a big deal.  I mean, how bad could it be, right?  Its a TV stand, for Heaven’s sake.  So, I stuck the hose attachment onto the vacuum and plunged the tip down into the crevice and…

*thump!*

*thump, thump, THUMP!*

I jumped and almost knocked over the vacuum.  What in the WORLD did I vacuum up?!  A cat?!?  After peering into the vacuum canister, though, I realized- my dust bunnies had morphed into dust jackalopes.

So, the things that I realized on this fine (possibly) Spring day?

  • Evolution.  Its not just for monkeys anymore.
  • When bunnies grow up, they become rabbits.  When DUST bunnies grow up, however, they become household legends.

 

Living with kids- its not for the weak

“I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…”

These are the words that keep flowing through my head as I find myself going through the motions today.  Its just another one of those days that has decided to zap the last of whatever it is that keeps me going.  Let me take you on a mental tour of my home right now, shall I?

As you walk though the front door, you’re greeted by something that’s akin to Hurricane Katrina with just a hint of “God, what’s THAT?!”  You check the address outside the door in the hopes that you’ve made a mistake- this cannot POSSIBLY be the right place.  But it is, so you attempt to trudge on.

Easier said than done.

You wade through the mounds of toys and -God help you- empty boxes that you realize were SUPPOSED to be turned into cars, trucks, playhouses, etc., but have now been broken down into unrecognizable forms.  You look around, wondering where FEMA has disappeared to, because this should most definitely qualify as a state of emergency… and then you realize that if they ARE there, you couldn’t find them anyway.  Suddenly, it hits you that you’ve only made it through the front door, and the rest of the home is waiting for your inspection.  After trying -unsuccessfully- to brush off the shudders that are now coursing through your body, you put one foot in front of the other.

In the dining room, you look under the dinner table and you see crusty breakfast cereal that was never cleaned up and has now permanently attached itself to the carpet.  No need for a baby book, here!  Dynamite will not loosen it!  You’ll be able to point out to the kids -once they’re grown ups- the ACTUAL food they used to eat.  Astounding!

You walk- well, you shuffle, anyways- into the living room, scream, and search for another room -ANY other room- to run to.  You at once think about attaching yellow caution tape to section off the unnatural disaster, but in the end, all you REALLY want to do is find a safe zone.  Every man for himself- if someone else is crazy enough to enter, that’s THEIR problem.  You hurry past the living room, trying desperately to rid your mind of the horrors you just witnessed, as well as trying to find your footing on a floor you cannot see.

You say a small prayer and work your way toward the kitchen- or, what, in an ideal setting, MIGHT be a kitchen.  You know that before this place was inhabited there was a sink.  You look to where you saw it last and gasp- a pile of dishes 50 feet high now engulfs the entire left side of the room.  No wonder you couldn’t see the kitchen through the pass-thru- the pass-thru is now a wall consisting of dirty cereal bowls, pots, pans, and the rest of what must surely be all the dishes and utensils the home holds.

What’s that smell?  Oh, GROSS- one of the kids must have found a moldy sippy cup and set it on the counter.  Better late than never; and at least it shows that they were cleaning out their room, right?  RIGHT?

To keep from gagging, you hurry on your way to check on the rest of the apartment.  First stop?  The guest bathroom- a.k.a. the Boys’ Bathroom.

Upon entering, you pause at the toilet- can males NEVER learn how to aim properly?!?!  You feel a need -an uncontrollable URGE- to get clean, but that’s not going to happen in THIS sink.  Somewhere along the line, the middle child felt the need to squeeze out an entire tube of toothpaste into the sink.  The bathroom is smelling minty fresh, though, so you thank God for the little things and back on out.

That’s when you feel the need to run.  To run fast and hard and long to escape what -in some distorted definitions- might be described as a room, but OH NO!  Not THIS place!  Much like a 20 car pile up or a nuclear explosion, you want to look away, but can’t.  As you gaze from the door -because that’s as far as you can make it- you think you see the faintest of outlines of a set of bunk beds and possibly a small table and -HA!- and organizational device that must have been left for comedic purposes because its OBVIOUSLY not in use…

Did something MOVE in there?!?!?!?!?!

You slowly creep away -to avoid being attacked by whatever is currently occupying the space- and turn to head toward the master bedroom.  You want to wash your brain to get rid of the scenes you’ve just encountered, but you can’t.  You realize with a resigned feeling that once you’re out of here, you will need to undergo therapy for PTSD.

The master is the only room where you aren’t scared.  The bathroom is clean!  The bed is made!  No toys to be found!  Serene music coming from the iPOD set up, and…

-what’s that rocking back and forth in the corner over there?

THAT would be me, people.  And, let’s be honest now- if you were living in the place I just described, wouldn’t you be going a little crazy, too?