Cat and Tate have a playroom just off of our family room that houses their toys, books, computer, their own couch and tv and various and sundry other of their treasures. The room generally looks lived-in on a good day and post-tsunami on most others.

Because the room has a door, I generally just shut the door so that I don’t have to view the mess until quarterly when I decide that I cannot take it anymore and go in and shovel out the playroom. Yesterday was my day to bring order to the chaos.

It took over two and half hours of me working non-stop. I filled one recycling bin and two yard sized trash bags. I cursed. I cleaned. I polished. I questioned the nature and origin of some of my finds. But at the end of the clean-athon I was tired, sweaty but victorious.

Cat, who had made herself conspicuously absent during the cleaning, was the first to arrive.

“Wow Mom,” she said. “The place looks great. You really did a good job.”

“Thanks Cat.”

“No really Mom, I can tell this was A LOT of work for you.”

“Yes Cat, it was” I said looking at her (in a fashion that I hoped was) rather pointedly. “And what does that tell you?” I asked, hoping for a reply that reflected a sense of responsibility, consideration and of taking care of one’s own belongings.

“It tells me that we need to be a little less messy in the future, so the next time you clean, it won’t be such a big job.”