Also, FYI. I am the Meanest Mom EVER...

Today, the perfect storm of a seriously crappy prior few days, raging raging PMS, lack of exercise , Finny sitting naked and crying over literally nothing (he claims it was ill-fitting underpants, I say it was nothing since those underpants were in good favour just last week), for a solid hour and the Apocalyptic state of Gracie's room came together.

And guess where I snapped? Ah yes gentle reader, you know me well. 'Twas the little princesses' cesspit that did it.

One moment I was picking up 15 random bits of paper that had clearly been cut with scissors which are very much banned in the bedroom, and the next, I was packaging up all toys and books in my path as I have threatened to do, lo these many years.

I spend a lot of time on that kid's bedroom "helping" her to tidy it, and each time she promises me with everything short of a blood oath that she will not mess it up to the same extent again. And each time I tell her that if she does, I will have to help her by minimizing the items she has at her disposal to create chaos with. Oh, she assures me soberly, there will never be need for that as she will never never destroy her room in a matter of minutes again.

But then she does, and oooohhhh how she does, and then doth the drama commence whereupon there is no way she can possibly clean it all up herself (and she is probably correct on that). This is where I enter, a whirling dervish of wrath, and spend precious hours of my life picking up the same crap (or reasonable facsimiles thereof) , as I picked up the last time, hissing and spitting away as she assures me it will be the last time ever, ever, and that it will never happen again. Never. It's the classic abuse cycle really. Not an optimal situation.

So today, amidst tremendous weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, truly, the most gut-wrenching, blood-chilling screams of "Mommy....NOOOO...Mommy! PLEASE! DON'T! NO MOMMY NOOOOOOOOO!!!! PLEASE!!!! I WILL DO ANYTHING" repeat ad nauseum increasing the volume each time (on the day that every single window and door of the house has been opened for airing of course), filled the air as I followed through. Now I await the arrival of CPS.

But my heart was hard, oh how hard it was! And with calm, yet grim and steely determination I continued to swath a path through the morass, tossing it all out the door as I went, to be relegated to the attic. I explained to her (although I'm not sure if bellowing to be heard over the mind-blowing decibel level she was emitting counts as effective explaining), that she would need to earn back items in exchange for showing that she could manage to keep the stuff she did have under control. Oh the unfairness! The inhumanity! The cruelty! She thought she might die (she really did say these words) I don't know where she gets the dramatic bent from. Must be a recessive gene in Aaron's line somewhere.

She threatened through her tears to tell all her friends of this and they would surely cease to like me. This did not move me as much as she seemed to think it would. Also, that she would tell her teacher. I thought that this was a super idea. She then wept for the grace of Daddy. I informed her that were Daddy here, he would be holding the boxes for me.

At one point I told her that if I were her, I would probably be spending my energy on picking up her treasured items and putting them away before I was able to dispense with them. She shrieked through her tears, "I am TRYING to, but you are just too fast! I wish that you would stop getting so healthy!" (I frequently stretch the truth by informing my children that I do not run to be skinny, I run only to be healthy).

Now her room looks delightful to me, very uncluttered and serene. To her it resembles a prison cell and she tells me she will be too afraid to sleep in there all alone with a mere 20 stuffed animals, bookshelf full of books and 3 boxes of toys under her bed. My landing on the other hand is completely stuffed with items that someone will have to box up and carry up to the attic. (Poor Aaron).
This is still waiting to be accomplished.

Gracie on the other hand is quite recovered from the traumatic incident, and no doubt will have zero recollection regarding which of her priceless treasures were ripped from her bosom in a day or too. I may as well just donate it all now.

Once again, I have managed to find a punishment to punish the parents rather then the child. Score one for the genius masochistic mama! Yeah me!

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