I love my kids. I really, really do. I love my kids. I really, really do. Maybe if I repeat the mantra three times, I will even believe it. (I love my kids. I really, really do.)

(Taking a deep breath . . . ) The mistake I made was to ask the kids to clean their rooms. This cleaning of the rooms is a big problem at our house and as I recall, it was a big problem in the house in which I grew up. How to get the kids to undo their mess without resorting to child abuse? Clearly it was done wrong in my house or I would have the magic key (or at the very least a clean room of my own). In light of the fact that there is no magic when it comes to raising kids (darn it!) I would know how to induce my kids to clean their rooms without resorting to physical violence. (They say knowledge is power.) (Is that the same as magic?) (One can only dream.)

True, my Big Guy is patently incapable of cleaning his room. Or his clothes or his hair or his barf. (Cleaning his plate, however, is something he can do. Washing it is another thing altogether. Call us old fashioned but we like our plates in one piece.) And his hands—he has no trouble washing his hands ‘til they squeak. There is an upside to OCD, people! Clean hands is it!

The Middle Child, bless her cotton pickin’ heart, says she is cleaning her room, implies she is cleaning her room, or that she has or that she will, and she spends so much time in there (with the door locked) one kind of assumes all is well. Attempts to get at the actual truth of the matter, however, always ends up in a frustrating battle of wills and wits and usually leaves me feeling pretty much witless and without the will to live. (You think I am over-stating the matter, being just a tad dramatic? Try taking on the Middle Child lest you judge false.)

Until recently, the Little Guy has been my ace in the hole. “Little Guy, time to clean your room,” I say, and off he goes to tidy up the tiny portion of floor space he has been allotted in our teensy-weensy (but cute!) home. He never used to complain or whine or pitch fits or stage rebellions. He just did it and he did it quick. (I know, but we are pretty much over our shock by now.)

Today, however, was a different matter (except, replace the word “today” with “this doggone minute which I am spending writing this rather than doing the “Mom” thing). Instead of the usual “Sure, Mom!” I got yelling, wailing and gnashing of teeth. Then the Little Guy somehow found a hole to crawl into amongst the dirty clothes, books and stuffed animals, the numbers of which rival the stars (or seem to) and set up a howling that could only leave the neighbors to ask “just what kind of torture is going on in there?” (hhmmm, torture, there’s a thought)

The whole thing has left me somewhat breathless with fear that the Little Guy might take on some of the negative characteristics of his older siblings. How dare the Little Guy get wise to the ways of children and refuse to obey! How dare he get older and develop skills! How dare he be old enough to start first grade in just a few days!