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I don't believe in cleaning up after my children in any way that they are capable of handling themselves. Sometimes I do it because it may be faster, or they may be feeling unwell or leaving to go out with their father, but other than those rare circumstances, it's their job. It has been since each of them were old enough to handle it.
That doesn't mean that it's not a struggle sometimes. My daughters are a lot like me, namely, stubborn and spoiled. They have way too much stuff, which they love until it's time to wade through all of it and place it back where it belongs. So much of it that when it comes time to clean, I get whines of "I have to do everything!" and "there is just too much to pick up!" and I'm forced to remind them of all the laundry, dishes, bed making, floor sweeping and bathroom scrubbing that I must do because they are such dirty little things in order to get silence.
So what do I do? I exert my motherly authority. I say "there will be no trip to the park" or "I guess snack time can wait" or "go to bed" (at 3pm) and that usually gets me what I want. Sometimes, I guilt trip them: "Remember that time I stepped on your toy and punctured a hole in my foot because you had your things everywhere?" or "Do you want your sister to fall down and hurt her lip again because she tripped over your toys?" and that works as well, for a while.
But, my kids adapt like diseases to medication and after a bit my methods lose their effectiveness. So a few months ago? I went drastic. At the end of the day, with two small girls in their pajamas sitting in the middle of the floor playing with their toys instead of cleaning them as they'd been instructed, I told them to just go on to bed. I gave them their hugs and their kisses, exchanged 'I love yous' and told them I'd clean it all up myself. They were all too ready to go to bed with this responsibility lifted.
When they woke up the next morning, that joy dissipated immediately. "Where are the toys?!" Bella asked. "My dollhouse!" whined Goobie. I sat there looking at them and said quietly, "I cleaned them up." I then opened a storage closet and showed them their toys' new home. In a bunch of cardboard boxes, destined to collect dust and cobwebs. I showed them the lone toy box available to them, full to the brim of toys, but none of the good stuff. All the good stuff was on the floor you see, and thus, went into the closet.
Now - they still have a crap load of toys, that still get spread out all over the floor, but there's no complaining when it's time to clean. Gradually, I've added back a favorite item here and there, but I'm in no rush to once again have the house flooded with primary colored wood and plastic, and this way they appreciate everything a bit more. It's worked out well for all of us.
Contributing Editor Maria Young further discusses her tyrannical mothering once in a while at her personal blog, Immoral Matriarch.
