I love my children. Really, I do. They're creative, funny, smart, curious, and each one is unique. They're pretty cute, too. But they're pigs.

I have to admit, I'm not the neatest, cleanest, most organized role model. I'm sure I'll get to the dishes sometime before the end of the... week. The clean laundry is mostly folded and will make it into everyone's closets, even if they're plucked from the back of the couch, worn, dirtied and rewashed first. And the baby will get his bath as soon as he's done getting dirty which, I'm told, should happen right around the time he starts liking girls.

But these kids... Ugh!

I'm not a total hypocrite. I don't expect spotless rooms. I don't even expect fairly neat rooms. Book piles spewing from beneath the beds aren't a big deal. A dirty clothes pile next to the laundry basket is even acceptable. Block towers are fine. I can even handle the occassional (washable) marker left, open of course, on the carpet, but they're just out of control.

This weekend was designated Clean Your Room Weekend. Of course, it had started as Clean Your Room Day, but that didn't go so hot. The end result is today is Mom Is Cleaning Your Room And You Will Be Left With Less Than Half Of Your Crap Day, which looks to be turning into MICYRAYWBLWLTHOYC Several Days.

My first stop was the girls' room. 5 year old M and 6 year old H share a bedroom. They hate it, and so do I. I know that M is the messier of the two, and it isn't really fair to H. H is still a pig in her own right, though, so tough noogies. Before even making it into their room, I have to shove a few scattered things from the hallway back into the room. I think the toys are trying to run away. Once I'm finally in, I discover a half stick of butter next to the door, behind the bookshelf. Yes, butter. Forget the crazy concept of butter behind a bookshelf. Who the hell steals BUTTER?!

After that mess, I go to put various mats intended for rainy day hopscotch, ballet and the like, under the bed, where they belong. Here, I encounter a once-beautiful (and pricey) Roma tomato, with a bite taken out of it. I'm pretty sure it was a human bite, since the ant perched on top was pretty small.

While tackling the mountain of once-clean clothes that were ripped from the closet at some point this weekend, I discover chocolate cake crumbs. I *still can't figure out when we may have had chocolate cake in the house.

Ah, but the winner (thus far) was yet to come. As the girls cleaned under M's bed, out came a tupperware container of 9 day old leftovers. Not pease porridge in a pot, but kielbasa and kraut, sausage and peppers. Mmmm!

I don't understand it. I don't WANT to understand it, I don't think. It's too frightening.

I doubt I'll make it to J's room before the end of the day. There's way too much scrubbing left to be done in the girls'. Not to mention the piles of clothes to be rewashed, and the donation bins I will be gleefully filling. Momma's had enough. If you love something, take care of it. If you can't be bothered to take care of it, it's gone.
And the next person to bring food into their room is going to be served nothing but kielbasa for a month, because I know I certainly can't stomach any after seeing that!