T.R.’s room is a mess. He likes it that way. I do not. We have carefully negotiated, with much wailing and gnashing of teeth, a compromise that, in theory, leaves both of us moderately happy. I’m supposed to deal with the room not being neat and he is supposed to deal with his clean and dirty clothes, put actual trash in the helpfully provided trash receptacle, and leave a Lego-free path for me to move around in his room.
I went in there this morning to help him get his bag for Rick’s together and to assist in the dirty laundry process so I could start the laundry earlier. Mistake! There is no path. Several days of clean laundry are piled haphazardly on his desk chair. Dirty laundry was in multiple non-hamper locations. Crumpled papers vie with Legos for floor space.
I took a deep breath and straightened up the bed. I collected what I needed and got out without destroying either my feet or precious Lego constructions. And I mentioned to T.R. that he was living dangerously.
See, the thing is, at a certain point when he doesn’t hold up his end of the bargain, I get so frustrated that I go in there and clean. Really clean. Like all the Legos off the floor. Like sweeping under the bed to remove whatever carcasses are under there. Like returning books to the actual shelves (who knew? Books go on shelves? Surely you jest!).
Now he’s pissed at me, holed up in that same room with the rest of his breakfast. God knows if he’s going to bother to get ready for school on time.
Sure, there are probably solutions out there. That’s not what I’m looking for right now. I just want to gripe.
Thank you for listening. This concludes my rant.