Boxes, bins, baskets, bags—I don’t discriminate.
If it has sides and can contain chaos, I’m in love.
But my ultimate frustration?
Other people do not treat things the way I do.
And nowhere was this more obvious than the toy room when the kids were little.
The toy room was my personal battleground. Every time I walked in, I had the same hopeful intention:
Today, I am going to clean and organize this room. Today, I will win.
And honestly, I tried.
I would enter calmly—almost zen-like—with every intention of putting things together properly and making it beautiful. I’d start picking things up, grouping toys, matching little plastic somethings to their original plastic somethings. For a solid ten to fifteen minutes, I was composed. Patient. Almost saintly.
But somewhere—always right in the middle—it happened.
The slow burn.
The rising heat.
That familiar twitch behind my eye.
Because the more I cleaned, the more I uncovered.
Toys that didn’t belong together.
Random screws.
Crumbs. Dead batteries.
Unidentifiable schnibbles.
Pokémon cards stuck to the floor—and to each other.
And then it would happen.
The moment something inside me snapped.
One minute, I was neatly piling things in the dining room to be organized.
The next, I was launching toys out the door in a full-blown hysterical tirade.
Stuffed animals? Gone.
McDonald’s toys? History.
Half-dressed dolls? Evicted.
Anything broken, annoying, or looking at me sideways? Airmailed into the dining room.
I wasn’t cleaning anymore—I was conducting a toy exorcism.
And the kids knew it.
There was a very specific point—right after I crossed from “patient organizer” to “toy-tossing tornado”—when they instinctively understood that the rules had changed. They no longer needed to help. There was no more sorting or assisting. No more “Is this trash?” or “Does this belong in the bin?”
Nope.
At that point, their only job was simple:
Get. Out. Of. The. Way.
They’d back out slowly, like they were retreating from a wild animal. Then they’d peek around the corner and watch in silence, observing the natural disaster unfolding before them. They knew Mom had reached the “Great Purge Phase,” and the best thing they could do was avoid becoming collateral damage.
The funny thing?
It was the only method that ever truly worked.
Step 1: Try.
Step 2: Try harder.
Step 3: Lose my ever-loving mind.
Step 4: Suddenly the room looks amazing.
Turns out, nothing motivates a clean toy room quite like a mother on the edge.
Click here to check out other Sidetracked opinions
Click here to listen to the Sidetracked Legacies podcast
Want to create your own legacy? Join the Sidetracked Sisters and start now!
Ever thought about working with a Life Coach? Are you a woman over 50 who feels unfulfilled in your long-term relationship? Lisa can help you rekindle love and joy, and avoid a “gray divorce.” Check out Lisa Hoffman Coaching.
#sidetrackedsisters #sidetrackedchelle #sidetrackedsanity #sidetrackedlegacies #legacywriting #legacystories #writeyourownlegacy #LisaHoffmanCoaching #toyroom #momlife #parentinghumor #organizedhome #decluttering #momstruggles #cleaningchaos
Don’t stop here—peek at the rest of our Sidetracked Sister shenanigans at https://www.linktr.ee/@SidetrackedSanity
