As the joys of Christmas near, I am filled with daydreams of wrapping paper in flight, those sound bite squeals of joy, and the magic of those little moments that become those time capsule memories. And then, I am reminded of the nightmare….the inevitable terror of the toy take-over.

Now let me defend the Grinch. Organizing the toy store that is my home is more a mirage than an accomplishment. No matter how many methods I have mastered, no matter the techniques that I try, my children’s skills of sabotage far surpass my efforts at organization. I’ve read the books. Heck, I teach the books! (No, that is not my sudden rebellion from self-deprecation. I actually do teach ECE. I know…frightening). But, my house remains the “Before” shot for the PG version of “Hoarders”. The system itself is intentionally slow, as it is always kid-contrived (because that teacher-nerd/masochist in me just can’t resist the buy-in factor or that applicable classifying/categorizing practice). My shelves are distinctively child-sized to allow for autonomy (fancy word for, “Do it yourself, kid!”). Each and every little box is kid labeled to establish ownership (fancy way of saying, “It is your stuff. Go do it yourself, kid!”), and pictures of the contents are photographed for my earliest emerging readers (fancy way of saying “My littlest illiterates”). Unfortunately, all of that pretty, little theory and methodology provides me a toy temple for approximately…2 days? Who am I kidding? It is more like 2 hours, before my momentary masterpiece has been redesigned by my little insanity designers into their own unique system of disorganization, in need of immediate disaster relief…a.k.a. “M-OOOOOOO-MY! I can’t find my (fill in the blank).” Thus, it is sometimes almost easier to allow yourself to be swept up into the tornado and condone the clutter, rather than to perpetually build up towering beacons of hope in the center of a storm.

Now I know what you well-intentioned advisers will say. “Try taking out half of their toys and hiding them away in the garage. Less toys. Less mess!” Please see Day 18 on the addictive effects of this method and the violent withdrawals associated with storing them in the toy crack house known as my garage. You see, whatever trinket it is that they DON’T currently have, is that one, must-have, precious little treasure that they simply MUST have…RIGHT NOW. So now, every time I open the door to the garage (a.k.a. pediatric crack den), it is like a mosh pit of little bodies looting the place, making this organizational system more vexed than advantageous for my unruly mob.

Now I also know the next bit of wisdom you will feel inclined to share. “Don’t buy any more toys.” Ha! You obviously don’t know that my nickname is McFrugal, a well-deserved title. I assure you, we are not big toy buyers. In fact, I hide my head in shame at every parent meeting when the teachers discuss the newest must-have apps for my kids, as we may very well be the last people on this planet to NOT own an i-Pad, i-Phone, i-anything. My children think that video games are the free learning sites on PBS kids. They are still convinced that hand-me-downs are the newest and greatest (and only) fashions. In fact, even on birthdays we have been known to claim our presence as their presents. Now before you all get mad, please know that we are not trying to be cruel. It is just that no matter what they get, there will always be another thing they just have to have. And because even amidst all of this intentional deprivation, my children somehow manage to be the most incredibly spoiled little apples in our bunch. They have learned to fill their toy bins with dollar section diamonds and clearance sticker finds, as they know their mama’s unhealthy obsession with bargains. They save up their own pennies just to buy that piece of junk advertised to seem invaluable by that one commercial that slipped past the shield of our beloved TIVO. And then YOU all come over and fill every inch of their shelves and closets with one more little, packaged product of love, and suddenly it is out of control. Thus, when you ask me, “What do they want?” as the event of the month approaches, and I sweetly reply, “No need for presents,” know that I am not trying to be polite. I am actually begging!

Now, to diffuse your last burning bit of advice, I DO throw toys away. And regardless if it gets tossed in the kitchen garbage, sneaked out the back to the big bin, or bundled up in the back of the car for donation, it is ALWAYS discovered. And how do I explain this disastrous discovery, when I catch those eyes crying, “How could you Mama?” I implicate the baby brother of course. “Oh my goodness! Did Wesley throw that in there?”, as I watch my attempt at de-cluttering be placed back in the bin of despair, now with an even more celebrated, and permanent position.

I give up!