Again. First, I'm a moron. I have devoted an entire room in my house to their toys, despite the fact that they each have their own rooms. I don't have my own room for my own fun toys. OK, scratch that, I sort of do. It's called my closet. But, as I've told McLovin on many occasions, shoes are not toys. Shoes are necessities. He insists that no one NEEDS Jimmy Choo. Silly man.
Second, I don't have a second. But it always sounds better to say "First" because it makes it seem you had a lot going on in your mind, and you were organizing. Which just reinforces that I'm a moron. Glad we got that cleared up. And ten bucks says Lydia is going to put an Editor's Note right here. [Editor's note: Thirdly, you are indeed a moron. And I am an imbecile. And that is why we are friends. D)My thoughts have not been organized for six and half years. And fifthly, this blog is not for those overly concerned with quality writing, grammar, punctuation or correct spelling. VI - Our husbands both have a room of their own that they go to every day to escape us - it's called their office. Lucky bastards. - Lydia]
I've tried to ignore the playroom. They aren't my toys, and it's not my mess. And, I consider it part of the Truce. They stay out of the land of MomsCloset, and I have graciously ceded to them the Playroom Territory. Why should I care if the Lego box is full of transformers and crayons, but strangely devoid of Legos?
Why? Because I'm constantly on Search-and-Rescue.
- "Mom! We wanna play Twister but where's the spinner?"
- "I can't find my Power Ranger [I hold one up] Noooo, not the Blue Guy, I need the Red Guy."
- "I NEED the yellow Play Dough for my class project. It's due Monday. We have to find it."
I even found the missing puzzle pieces to three different puzzles, which caused me to run upstairs and loudly announce -- a la Tom Hanks in "Castaway" -- I! Have Found! The Missing Snoopy Puzzle Piece! With the piece held up over my head like it was the Stanley Cup. They all just looked at me, partly confused by my enthusiasm, but mostly grateful we didn't have any non-family people in our house. Especially after the third time...
Three hours later, the room was pristine. Everything in its place, the train table assembled, new batteries in the toys that were starting to sound like vinyl records when you would spin them backwards and convinced yourself it was some demonic chanting. (Oh please, we ALL did it, just like we all put the big records on the faster speed so everyone sounded like Alvin and the Chipmunks. Yeah, do that with your iPod.)
I marched upstairs to announce my victory and discovered my kitchen cabinets relieved of all their pots and pans, which in turn have been assembled into an apparent drum set; my napkins and tablecloths and dining room table transformed into a fort; and my sofa being used as the staging ground for some impending attack by an army of invisible troops, as evidenced by the piles of coats, hats and gloves that had been emptied out of the hallway closet. Clearly, my husband had surrendered to the Evil Lilliputians, because he was sitting in my chair in the corner of the room, snoring. He had a rope wrapped around his waist, but I'd swear he did that to himself so he could plead he was a hostage in their game.
And, I have to say it. If I was sitting in the room when Boris and Natasha had this idea -- I don't include the little one; he may be destructive, but he's lacking that "veee shall make veeg trouvle for moose and sqvill" mentality...yet -- I don't think I'd be saying, "Yes, this is such a stroke of brilliance that I think I will leave you to your devious plan and fall asleep."
I hit decibel levels that NASA hasn't been able to track yet. Something about WHAT IN THE ALL THAT IS HOLY IN THIS WORLD HAVE YOU DONE TO MY HOUSE GET OUT OF THIS ROOM THIS INSTANT YOU KNOW YOU MAY NOT PLAY IN MY FAMILY ROOM I DON'T CARE THAT WE CALL IT A FAMILY ROOM WE CAN CALL IT A MOM ROOM FOR ALL I CARE YOU HAVE A ROOM THAT IS FOR PLAYING IT IS CALLED THE PLAY ROOM YOU GET DOWNSTAIRS NOW BEFORE I SELL YOU TO CHINA I KNOW SOMEONE WHO CAN DO THAT...
Which, amazingly, woke up McPrisoner. Hey, welcome to the post-apocalypse, sunshine.
I was like Wall-E on crack. It's amazing how loudly one can put things away. I mean, it's one thing to slam a pot into the cabinet and bang the door shut, but I somehow managed to make hanging a coat on a hanger into a loud activity. DO YOU [SLAM!] HEAR ME [BANG!] CLEANING UP [WHAM!] UP HERE? McLovin retreated downstairs to quietly explain to the children that Mommy likes to have one room that is neat and tidy and we should be OK with that so she doesn't get that wonky eye that freaks us all out.
After I was done, I went back downstairs to apologize for my Joan Crawford moment. There was even an upside. I'd managed to find the Red Power Ranger hiding under the sofa...he must have been on a mission or something. Imagine my surprise to find DefCon 27 in the Playroom. Action Figures and Barbies acting out some sort of fraternity party and swimming in a pool of green Play Dough; Mr. Potato Head turning into Mr. Harley Davidson Head, and receiving simultaneous Magic Marker tattoos; the "boxes" box full of every play piece from every game we have; and my daughter teaching her little brothers to play 52-PickUp. Or, more accurately, 52-Scatter and Scream.
But not too loudly. McLovin is taking a nap....in the hostage chair in the playroom.