Things get grubby with kids. I don't know how walls get so grimy. Do we have to touch the walls, kids? Yet I haven't found a way to be both strict about keeping everything spotless, and nice at the same time. It's either "Get your feet off the wall!" fifty times a day, every day, or it's not. I hate harping on the kids. My kids can only absorb so many instructions, and while I thought we would be long past "Say please, say thank you, take a shower" by now, we're still working on some basic tenets of living in a society of humans. These kids have collections and toys and treasured papers and about a hundred journals with one sentence on the first page, and granola bar wrappers ditched under their beds even though there is an ACTUAL NO FOOD OUT OF THE KITCHEN RULE. Things get bad. Rooms start to look like the warrens of seriously mentally ill rabbits. Large groups of them.
Then, since I can't be nice every minute, I throw away all the stuff while the kids are at school and paint the room. See isn't that better? I won't even tell you how many of Xanthe's stinky, outgrown shoes I got rid of. It's too embarrassing. Sure, my kids will grow up to be hoarders in retaliation to all the cleaning sprees, but hey, everyone has hangups. They might as well be maladjusted in pretty rooms.
Or not in pretty rooms. The catch here is that no child can ever go in this room again. Ruby and I told Xanthe last Thursday that her room flooded and she couldn't sleep there. She shrugged. Whatever. She's been sleeping on the floor in Araceli's room ever since.
1 comment:
Looks great!
Post a Comment