It’s been at least two years since Jack’s room has had a major cleaning, and that’s mostly because I avoid his space as much as possible. The floor is covered in LEGOs, even after he has “cleaned” <cough!>, and for some reason, his guitar and amp are always—ALWAYS!—in the doorway. Dresser drawers cannot be closed because they are stuffed full of clean and dirty clothes, papers, books, and LEGOs. The closet is growing things that make noise. When I walk in to this room, my blood pressure immediately elevates to dangerous levels. You think I’m exaggerating. I am not.
This is Vic’s and my project today. When we told Jack of our plans to tackle his room, he groaned. Then I told him I didn’t want him in there while we clean, and he was very, very happy. He thinks that’s good, that he doesn’t have to help. He shall surely regret not helping. He shall surely miss many of the things he holds dear but does not take care of and therefore does not deserve. (That’s me, pretending to be Meanie Mom. I suck at being Meanie Mom. I talk the talk, sure, but my “walk” is this: I’ll pick up every single LEGO piece from the floor and put it in a safe place, where it can be played with for years to come.)
Today will start with me muttering things like, “Why do we ever buy him anything when he doesn’t appreciate it?” and it’ll end with me tearing out my hair while setting fire to his room. (It’s okay; our next-door neighbor is our insurance dude and HE WOULD NEVER TELL.) There’s a good chance you won’t hear from me after today, so I just want to say that I love many of you and the rest of you can go to hell. “Hell” being Jack’s charred bedroom.
You will hate it. Trust me on this.