Inherited Messes

Monday, I gave myself quite the workout.

I spent about six hours going through Larry Potter and Hoover's shared room, getting rid of old toys and things that were broken or garbage.

I probably should have rented a dumpster.

This wad the final step in the master plan to overtake the world organize the boys. I've been reading this book, recommended to me by a psychologist. And holy crap, it's working.

As most of you know, Hoover is my most....active...child. He had a few problems in school this year, enough to prompt me to make a doctor's appointment for him to rule out a few things. At the end of the appointment (in which she sent Hoover out to color with a nurse and it turned into the therapy session for Mommy), she said she wanted to send Hoover for further testing but thought he could have ADHD. She recommended the book I sited above, and it's so far been a great experience.

I pared down the boys' wardrobe to only 10 shirts and 10 pairs of shorts (they had A LOT of clothes) as to not overwhelm them and me with piles of laundry and drawers that didn't close. Then, I went through the two toy boxes and consolidated them into one. I brought in a bookshelf, put some open bins that I took from my dad's house (and that were slated for the garbage man) to organize, and then finally with Disgruntled Husband's help, we unbunked the beds.

Husband repellent!

They may not have as much room in there anymore, but everything has a place and I can even get Hoover to make his bed in the morning. Willingly.

(The unbunking of beds was recommended because it can be hard to change sheets and make the bed with bunkbeds. Amen to that. When I tore the sheets of LP's bed, I found tinsel and wrapping paper, as well as his Winter Break reading assignment. Mommy Fail.)

I'm slowly trying to incorporate the rest of the book's ideas into my own life and not just with kids' bedrooms. It's a process. In all honesty, it was much easier doing this stuff with the boys because, well, they are my minions and (theoretically) do what I say. I have a harder time convincing DH, and to some degree, myself.

(And it's become second nature around here that when I say "Well, the book says..." DH's eyes roll into in his skull and he leaves the room.)

Five year olds are much more trainable than adults. I hope Hoover's future wife thanks me for this someday.

You know, when she comes to my retirement home to organize my crap.