An exercise in futility

***Disclaimer: I love my job. Really. It's the absolute perfect job for me, I'm eternally grateful that Mister B pushed me to try it, and I firmly believe I have the greatest group of kids in the whole world.***

Ahem.

I think that, instead of water boarding, our go-to torture method should be to lock someone in a room with approximately half a dozen toddlers, and insist that they are not allowed to leave until the TODDLERS have cleaned up the 782 toys that are scattered on the floor of said room.

You see, they'd never leave. Ever.

We cleanup (read: I cleanup) our toys before we transition to another area of the house, or to a major activity. This process usually involves more redirection than you can imagine. Something like this:

"Put the blocks in the bin, please.
No, not in the couch, in the bin.
Z, stop sucking your thumb, please.
Out of your mouth, baby W.
No, A, blocks don't go in your ear.
Okay.
Everybody ready?
Books!
Let's put the books on the shelf.
No, not in the trash, on the shelf.
Shelf.
SHELF.
Okay.
Yes, I see that block!
Can we put it back in the bin, please?
No, not on the table, in.the.BIN."

Lather, rinse, repeat. It's exhausting at times. Worth it, because I know that cleaning up after oneself is a very important life lesson.

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Life is about to get much more interesting around here. Jax starts baseball soon (he's moving up to coach pitch this year), Sam starts ballet on Saturday, and I'm starting a new business. I'll be a Pampered Chef consultant, come March.

It's a lot, but I thrive when busy. Good thing, too, because this life we've created for ourselves is nothing if not busy.

Thank the universe I found Mister B. He completes me, grounds me, and puts up with my insanity. He's a keeper, that one.