One Garbage Bag Later: The Beauty Of A Little Tough Love

There are countless kind, child-friendly ways to get a little one to clean her room. But none of them are working, today.

It's time for some Tough Love action, kiddies.

The Bug is at the age where she can dress herself in something suitable for the occasion, even if it’s only marginally fashionable. This also means that she’s discovered she can change her clothes on a whim. This morning, she changes into her favorite, fancy dress as we’re about walk out the door for the grocery store. She emerges from her room in pink ruffles, rainbow tights, Wizard of Oz-style sparkly shoes, and a Cupie Doll smile. I think the smile is an attempt to convince me to let her wear the dress. Whatever--I'm cool with it. Our favorite Safeway checker will be charmed, I'm sure.

On my way to quick-change my shirt, I discover the real reason for the syrupy sweetness. (Gads, they learn so young!) Darling Bug has emptied every drawer in her dresser onto the floor, jumped in the colorful piles, and kicked them around the room like so many autumn leaves. We’re on a tight schedule and must pick up big sister and two friends from summer camp, soon. I don’t have time for this. She needs to clean it up, herself.

“I’m too tiiiiiired,” she moans, and flops atop the pile with a huff of faux exhaustion. I ask her in my Nice Mommy voice. I remind her of the “good behavior” chart. And after ten minutes of cajoling, pleading, shouting, threatening, and growling through gritted teeth, I give up and rush her out the door.

But I have one more trick up my sleeve. If she thinks she’s off the hook, she’s dead wrong.

After lunch, I remind her once more to clean her clothes off the floor. I even offer to help her, but she has to show some initiative and start the project. I come back five minutes later and nothing has moved. She’s flipping through a picture book as she sits amid the soft clutter. I warn The Bug one last time: if she doesn’t clean up, I’m going to do it—and she’s not going to like it. She lays on her back, arms dramatically outstretched. “I can’t do it. It’s just too much,” she sighs.

I turn on my heel and walk out of the room. And return with a trash bag.

When I was 15, I was your typical, obnoxious, messy teenager. Cleaning up meant time away from my artwork, writing in my journal, and crafting notes to boys that were sure to make them want me with testosteronic intensity (never mind that I had no clear idea what to do with that, yet). But I was born to Mr. Neatfreak. Keeping my door shut didn’t do it, for him—he had the audacity to suggest my room constituted a health hazard of ginormous proportions and vowed it would get clean, one way or another. Just make me, I thought smugly. Ha.

One afternoon, I came home from school and walked into my bedroom. Let me repeat that. I walked into my bedroom. The carpet was visible for the first time in six months and I didn’t have to step onto the bed to avoid the open box of art materials spilling across the floor. I did a happy-bounce on the mattress, dropped my back pack on the side table…then thought twice and put it in the space underneath. I slid into my chair and admiringly ran my hands across the dusted, empty desk. It actually felt good to have free space around me. I might even grow to like this enough to do it myself. He cleaned my room! I have the coolest Dad on the planet. All was forgiven.

And then I saw the note.

“Dear Squeeks. You’ll find your things in the new trash barrel on the side yard. Next time, do it yourself. Love, Dad.”

Even through the red, I saw the beauty of it. As pissed as I was, the godliness of cleanliness had lasted just long enough to make an impression. Now, I'll admit I’m far from being a Neatfreak, but to this day, it makes me physically ill to live with a mess for more than a few days. Clutter drives me up the wall. I often don't have the time to keep my house as clean as I'd like, but one day, I promise you...

Yes, dear parents, I am a perfect advertisement for Tough Love. I hated my father, that day, but I got over it. And now…dang me if I haven’t become the man’s greatest disciple. Don’t drop a wrapper on the street in my presence. I’ll chase after you and give it back.

And so I begin silently putting The Bug’s clothes, one by one, into the trash bag. Her eyes are saucers. “No!” she shrieks. “Don’t throw them away! Don’t throw them awaaaaaay!”

Her older sister comes in to see what all the shouting is about and sits down on the bed, horrified. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her mouth is literally hanging open.

I tell her it’s obvious to me that she doesn’t care at all about her clothes, or she’d take better care of them. I see no point in keeping things in the house that no one wants. “I want them, I want them, I want them!” She’s bawling, now. Will you put them away, then? I ask. A tearful affirmative. Show me, I tell her. She picks up a few dresses, despairingly plops them into the nearest empty drawer. I dump out the bag and help her sort the clothes into piles. And then I leave her to it.

When I come back ten minutes later, she’s not only put them into the drawers, but her big sister has helped her put the drawers back into place. A two-for-one lesson. Gotta love that.

Maybe she’ll end up hating me. More likely, she’ll consciously forget about it until the next time I ask her to clean up a mess and am forced to gently remind her of the day. I think it was John Bradshaw who said that when we don’t know what to do in a situation, we fall back on what’s familiar—and the word “familiar” has the same root as the word “family”. Who knows? Maybe The Bug will become the next Miss Neatfreak.

One way or the other, I pity her college roommates.

This is an original post to Silicon Valley Mom's Blog. When she's not bemoaning the messes her kids make, Angela O. also writes for A World Of Words and From Basic Training To Black Sash: A Mother's Wing Chun Journey. Click here to follow her on Twitter: @AngelOrr