Clutterfree With Kids
The other day while at work at the library I was minding my own beeswax, just checking in items as I waited for the courier to arrive, when the above title was placed into the drop box. The patron that deposited this rumination eliciting title was one of my favorites, a homeschooling mother of quite a few kids. The thing I like about her is she reads a lot of everything. Also she is Mr. Rodger's-like in the friendliness department. I've never seen the lady appear crabby or crotchety ever, and after five years that factoid right there counts for something.
After this patron collected her next batch of holds and left, I reached into the drop box and withdrew this book. Clutterfree With Kids. "For real?" I blurted loudly and burst into giggles, for this was the first image that came to mind:
And no, I don't advocate locking children in dog crates, but seriously, how is one to attain a clutter-free environment with spawn rampaging around one's abode. A Velcro wall?
One of my co-workers piped up with this suggestion:
My mind kept galloping through all possible clutter-free achieving scenarios but the battle was quickly lost for I envisioned the current view of my daughter's closet:
I've had her straighten that nightmare up plenty of times, but alas while I won The Battle of Mouse Trap Closet Door Stop, I am pretty sure that The War of Clutter Courtesy of My Progeny won't reach an armistice until they are jettisoned from the nest.
I once knew a woman that kept her house Martha Stewart-esque. Her carpet had to have vacuum tracks leading a certain direction. Her devotion to clutter terrified me as a child, I felt like I would be shoved into an iron maiden with drape hooks for stakes if I disrupted those perfect marks in her nineties blue carpet. The atmosphere in that house was so rigid and I remember not feeling at ease until I was out of that creepy place.
At this point in my parenting scheme I have resigned myself to a bit of child detritus coloring my world. I'd rather trip over some scissors, Legos, a drama rehearsal schedule, underwear, a dismantled VCR, a half written story, some MTG cards, and last week's shooting targets than have a sterile house that loudly announces that no life is allowed within its confines. I draw the line at filth, like the other day when my son came in after cleaning the pig barn and flopped his poo covered form on the couch. Let's just say the couch looks extra clean now!
That said, there is always some information to be gained from any source, so I am not mocking the author of that book in anyway. In fact, as I routed the book to its home library I received a final bit of mood boosting mirth from that tome, I spied this explanatory addendum underneath that gut busting title:
I suppose raising kids is a bit of a battlefield. As my hair looks like Mel Gibson's upon awaking every morning, I am totally going to break out the blue face paint, for it's as I always say: If you can't beat them, annoy them!
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