I have heard it said that you get the child you deserve. After a day like today I think I tend to agree. It started with my typical foray into my daughter’s room to get her going for the day. It had been a few days since I had taken a really good look at the place. The middle of the room looked clean enough, but lurking under the bed and tucked in corners was all of the remnants of a few days worth of play. No big deal, right. Just a few minutes worth of tidying would wrap it up and we could begin our day. Behold some of the fights conversations from our four hours of cleaning.
Let me preface these conversations with a few facts about me as a child. I was a master negotiator. I think I learned early on that a reward today was much sweeter than the promise of a bigger payoff tomorrow, especially if your parents forgot and you could finagle double the payday. This was good for postponed bedtimes, procrastinated chores and plenty of five more minutes. I also believed that it was much more cost effective to persuade my siblings to pick up my slack than it was for me to put forth the effort myself. What can I say, I am a natural leader.
That said, I usually make my kiddo clean up most of her room by herself, even though it would be way more efficient if I helped her. I figured if she can make the mess she can clean it up. A logical thought that usually goes out the window about an hour in since logic and five year olds are often like oil and water.
Before she had even begun I heard, “Mom, how about I watch a few minutes of Sprout and then clean my room.” No, Madison. Didn’t you just tell me that you learned on Sprout that you have to clean up your messes? “Yes, but I think I need to learn more about it so I will just watch a few more minutes.”
Go clean, Madison.
Then she came up with, “Mom, how about I surprise you with my room. I will just close the door and you can wait and see what happens.” She is a tricky one, isn’t she? I told her I would be just as surprised if she cleaned her room with the door open. (Or at all.)
GO clean, Madison.
Next I hear, “I am just going to go outside to play with the dogs for a few minutes.” No, Madison we have to clean up BEFORE we get to play. “No, no… did I say play with the dogs? I meant I need to go outside and take care of the dogs. It is not playing, I am helping.”
GO CLEAN, Madison.
Then I get the lecture that Jack doesn’t have to clean his room, because he is a baby. Yes, Maddie, I know. (I have a feeling poor Jack is going to be subject to a lot of Madison’s “leadership” as well.) But Jack also doesn’t make the messes that she makes. He doesn’t have the same amount of toys that she does either. This launches a spirited debate on why Jack needs books if he can’t read. (Neither can she.) Or why her old baby books should live in Jack’s room. (Yes Jack can share them with you, but no you do not need anything else in your room.) And finally, why they are called baby books if they are not made out of babies… I am not even sure where this one came from, but we will just ignore it.
GO CLEAN MADISON!
It is about this point that I start to lose my patience. The project has already taken 45 minutes longer than it should have and we haven’t even started yet. That is when I tell Madison that if she doesn’t get in there and pick up her stuff I am going to go in her room and clean it with a trash bag… and she won’t like the results. It is at this moment that I realize I have repeated something my mother would say to us as kids, verbatim. I head to the kitchen to pour another cup of coffee and seriously consider adding equal parts Jameson to the mug, but I opted for chocolate instead since my perception of clean is directly proportional to the level of alcohol in my system. (The proof of this is in the infamous Thanksgiving incident of 1998; but that is another story I think may have already blabbed on this blog.)
Properly chocolate-ly medicated I head back to Madison’s room, ready to help her tackle the mess. At this point I catch her in the cubby hole under her bed (it is a half-bunk… I don’t really make my kid play under a regular sized bed, at least not yet.) She had dumped her entire crayon box and approximately 25 sheets of paper under there. She had also managed to smuggle in a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer and was happily cutting said paper oblivious to the angry mommy behind her. Once she realized I was there (and after she jumped a mile) she realized her only option was to cry, a dumb negotiating move if you ask me. Although my husband was quick to point out that I have been known to use the same technique to try to weep my way out of a ticket or two.
The tears did not have the desired effect on me, however. All it prompted from me was the urge to pile all of her mess into one big pile in the middle of the room. A move also made famous by my mom, which prompted another needed dose of my chocolate “medication” to help me cope with the fact that despite my best efforts I am turning into my mother. Madison’s room now looked like a cross between a deranged fraternity party and a ticker tape parade.
All told, it would take a few more hours and at least eight “how about’s” from Madison, trying to negotiate a lighter sentence than the few minutes it would take to finish. After seven more, GO CLEAN MADISON’s and five more pieces of chocolate we finally finished cleaning her room. Now it is time to tackle the laundry. (sigh) Pass the chocolate… and the Jameson. If I can’t clean ‘em, join ‘em.
a life just ordinary 