Living on The Rock: Cleaning your teen's room can be hazardous!

Tidying, sorting, clearing out the kid's room. Why do parents put themselves through this kind of stuff? Some sort of brutal torture, no doubt. Those of you who know me know that I have three adult children and one teenager. I've done this clean-the-room routine many times over the years. I'd get tired of the mess in the kids' rooms and, while they're at school, I'd go to town. I'd sort and toss, sort and re-arrange...They'd come home and cry because their precious belongings were nowhere to be found. I was a mean mama!

Well, I haven't done that often enough with my teenage daughter. Obviously. Multiple warnings of impending clean-up prior to the move to another room didn't accomplish enough. One tiny bag of thrift-shop donation wasn't nearly what I had in mind. ........................................................................................................................................... After one last warning, I went upstairs while she was away for a week. My first foray was a scouting mission. I peeked from around the corner to see what state the place was in. Not bad. Not bad at all! I was pleasantly surprised! I could see the carpet. No clothing piles on the couch. One day of work should see the job through, and then I'd move all her things to her new room in the basement. .................................................................................................................................................... Next time up was with a single garbage bag in one hand, laundry basket in the other. I knew I'd find something, no matter how diligent the girl had been. .................................................................................................................................................. It didn't take long for me to realize that my self-imposed task was bigger than I'd anticipated! For one thing, she had several cupboards and bins filled with sundry items left over from her early years. Books dating back to her Dr. Seuss era. As well, the room has what we call a "Harry Potter" closet. A little room off the main, under the eaves. Big enough to store a pretty large amount of stuff! (When she was younger, she used to switch on the light, crawl into a nest of blankets, book in hand, and read in her little hideaway.) .................................................................................................................................................. I swear she used a snow shovel to push everything through the doorway and then slammed the door shut before it could fall back out! ........................................................................................................................................... Two days later, I was feeling like I had accomplished something. Her room was looking pretty good. I had been ruthless in my sorting and tossing. Cupboards were bare, books were sorted into give-away piles. My Yaris hatchback was full of bags to go to the Thrift Store. I had designated at least 8 additional bags as garbage. Last project was the Harry Potter closet. ........................................................................................................................................... Day three was looking good. An hour into the job, with Igor hanging out next to me, I had a pile of things outside the room, had lost my dog in the pile, and needed to climb in to reach the last few pieces. ...................................................................................................................................................... I climbed in and turned to face the doorway and tripped on some small thing laying on the floor and without further ado, fell arse first into a big blue storage bin. Now, if there had been anything in the bin, I might have stood a chance, but it was an empty bin. I felt like a ruddy hermit crab in a new shell, legs up, arms sticking out the sides, arse at ground level. ............................................................................................................................................. There were a number of things going through my mind, but I'm not sure what went through first. Of course, I needed to get out of the bin. I had no leverage for either pushing or pulling. There was a box on one side of me and another blue bin on the other, so I couldn't rock to either side to topple the thing to the floor. I also really had to use the bathroom. Postponement while I was engrossed in my task made that an essential need. I started to laugh at my predicament. This didn't help on either front. I had unwittingly assumed the proper position. I peed my pants. This only made me laugh harder. I farted. This wasn't looking or feeling good. ... Let's not go down that path any farther. ................................................................................................................................................... I needed a hand in the worst way. Luckily, my handy-dandy phone was within arm's reach. I reached. Then I paused and thought about my next move. Call for help... Take a picture. Which would do more good. Nobody was available to help! ... What the heck. I took a picture. ................................................................................................................................................. It took me about 15 minutes to work it out, but I managed to rock the bin enough to roll it forward. Once folded forward with my legs on the ground, I managed to un-wedge myself and slide out of the bin. ................................................................................................................................................ A bathroom run. A change of clothes. A picture worth a thousand words.