This past weekend I kept walking around piles of the boys cast-off toys and books. Everytime I had to make my way around one of the piles I would urge the kids to pick them up. After about my forty-first detour around the small toys on the living room floor I snapped. I gave the boys (who were happily reading by the new fireplace) one more chance to get up and pick them up. Getting no response, I created one of my own. In dramatic glory, I scooped up all the toys I could fit into my arms, declared loudly that they were headed for the trash, and then stomped up the stairs. I admit that I couldn't bring myself to throw them into the gross trash can under the sink that has all manner of foodscraps in it, and instead went to Eli's nearly empty bin in his room. But throw them I did. The boys, finally roused from their reading stupor by my glorious tantrum, rushed up behind me and stood in the doorway, aghast at my actions. I informed them that they could, should they desire, rescue anything they wanted from the trashcan, but from this point forward any toys left unclaimed on floors or tables or radiators could be found filed away in the trash.
The whole time I was having this tantrum, a part of me was detached and watching from above. This mini-me was amazed, impressed, and only a little embarassed. I watched myself dust off my hands, and prance off to the privacy of my own room. I will let you know that I took great pleasure from the sounds of the boys hastily shoving toys into drawers as I hid in my room, waiting for my cool to return. Jon then sidled by and sweetly asked me to cough up some loose change for the therapy jar. He may have a point.
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