Monday, May 25, 2009

Migration

I've often wondered why I bother cleaning, organizing, putting things away. The things never stay where they are supposed to be for long, and nothing in this house is ever clean for any measurable length of time. I suppose it keeps me busy, and makes me believe that I am in control. Supports the notion that, somehow, I can maintain order. It's a fallacy, I tell you.

The root of the problem is that I live with children. Messy children. Aidan is finally to the age where he has started caring about organization, at least in some ways. He's obsessive about his legos, and has learned the hard way that he has to keep them picked up and away from smaller hands. He's witnessed a few get sucked up the vacuum. Anything else, though, and he could care less.

Ashley might be better about it if it wasn't for the fact that she has to share a room with her sister. She understands that she needs to keep her room clean, or at least make a decent attempt. And she can clean up faster than any of the other kids. Most of the time, though, she doesn't bother. What's the point, living in the same room with Ally?

Ally is small, but mighty. She is the most constant source of destruction in the house. What she can do to a clean space in the matter of minutes is rivaled only by major natural disasters. It doesn't help that she is a bag lady, constantly carrying things around the house. The bags facilitate toy migration.

If you've never seen migration in action, just spend a few hours at my house. The littlest pet shop seem to migrate with the most frequency, which would make sense - they are animals, after all. They need to adjust to shifts in climate, changes in the weather, time of day, right?

We try pretty hard to keep the toys contained, in particular, we try to keep toys off the main floor of the house. The kids have a playroom upstairs, and the basement is all theirs. Often though, that isn't good enough. They want to play where we are - on the main floor. And they bring the toys along with them. They come downstairs from up, upstairs from down. The toys, they come. The migration continues. It's a neverending saga.

Again, we find ourselves with a family room that resembles a playroom. AJ is old enough now to play. And for the most part, his toys are here, where we are, and where he is. I need to be able to keep an eye on him all the time, and consequently, his toys need to be here too. We have years and years of migration yet to contend with.

Someday the toys will stay put away, someday they will find peace in their rightful place. But it's not a day that I am looking forward to. I've learned to embrace the chaos, because it means that my home is filled with children that still play. And having that is worth the mess that it brings.

1 comment:

  1. Amen! It will be a sad day when there are no toys around for me to trip over. Or some other sentence that doesn't end in a preposition. :)

    ReplyDelete

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