On the Interconnectedness of Cleaning and Sleeping

Last night I had a wild time out on the town which consisted of sitting in a basement family room chatting with friends about books while eating chips and salsa. It was deeply satisfying in that quiet way that reminds me that I'm an adult, and also boring. Definitely not the main character in a movie or sitcom.  When I got home it was late, the house was dark, and the family was asleep. Before going to bed myself I went around to check on the kids, you know, to make sure they were breathing and hadn't adopted any wild animals while I was gone. I've suspected for a while that the girls are letting squirrels nest in their hair, just to make life extra hard in the morning when they're getting ready for school.  I try to brush their hair and they cry and carry on like their hearts are broken, like their best friends are now homeless. I haven't actually caught the girls in the act of housing squirrels, but it's only a matter of time before one of those furry beasts leaves behind evidence more damning than matted and tangled hair, say, gnawed acorns or shredded bark.

I found both girls asleep on the floor of their rooms. I almost stepped on Kimmy, but realized at the last minute that the rug was breathing.  She was curled up in her sleeping bag in the middle of the floor.  April had made a very cozy-looking blanket nest next to her bed. She was gently lit by the glow of her five nightlights, so the chances of my stepping on her were considerably lower than the chances of my being blinded.

Why weren't they sleeping in their beds? Because the floor was clean, don't ya know.

I made them clean their rooms that day so I could vacuum up the rainbow loom bands and dead ladybugs and clementine peels. It was an exhausting ordeal to get the girls to clean. I had to yell up the stairs at them like ten times to get them to actually finish picking up, because they've got the attention span of a goldfish or a housefly. Finally after an hour I put down my book and rolled off the couch and started up the stairs with the vacuum cleaner.

"Your floors had better be clean by the time I'm done with the hallway because I promise you I will vacuum anything I find!!" I called up in the melodious and dulcet tones of a nightingale, or possibly a car alarm. Either one, really. And amazingly, the girls were ready for me. The floors were clear of everything but stuffed animal guts, snips of paper, and the aforementioned expired bugs, snack remnants, and crafting debris. I finished vacuuming upstairs just in time for dinner, and I took off afterwards for my book club meeting.

At bedtime their dad sent them to their rooms, where they learned a very important lesson. When you "pick up" by moving all your toys from the floor to the bed, stuff that belongs on the bed (i.e.; your body) has to go on the floor.

Bonus Fact: The girls independently arrived at both of these lazy solutions: putting everything on the bed, and then sleeping on the floor lest they be obligated to actually put things where they belong.