Aselin

I have tried to raise up my family in a tradition of manners and decorum. While I concede they are no Stepford children, we usually accomplish a trip in public without major incident. In fact, they are often complemented on their social graces.

Sigh.

Then there’s living with them. Totally different story.

Currently an unnamed child is working with me on keeping their room in such a manner that the state health board doesn’t condemn it. Aside from the myriad of dried out cereal bowls with the spoon adhered tight enough you can lift the apparatus to the moldy bags of lunches long gone, whenever I’m in the pack rat paradise I wear gloves and a mask.

The surprising thing is the room must be gutted weekly for the said child to engage in any social activities so it’s not like this thing has festered for months.

Being the supportive mother I am I try and work along side my children. It makes it easier for them to hear my yelling.

As we’re purging the bookcase, under the bed, behind the door I’m appalled at the half eaten candy wrappers, wet paper, thankfully sealed ziplock bags encasing black slime... it is amazingly vile. Then we head to the closet. Timidly I swing open the door... looks relatively safe. We enter together - I’m not going to die alone in there - and start sorting. The indescribable collection of filth causes me to opt for the non communication parenting style. As said child chatters away I just nod and repeat mentally “I can survive this. I can survive this.”

890 filled trash bags later we’ve made a dent. Reaching to the back of a shelf I discover one of my favorite mixing bowls. Kitchen mixing bowls. Oh crap. Literally. It’s filled to overflowing with dirty underwear. Are you kidding me? I turn to face a grinning unnamed child who starts giggling and says “Mom, at least I organized them all.”

Now I have to figure out how to burn stainless steel.