Crystal's Closet

A mother's humorous account of cleaning her daughter's room

CRYSTAL'S CLOSET

Oh, no. It's housecleaning day. I've cleaned every room in the house except the dreaded “it.” I reluctantly bend down and pick up my arm-pit length, heavy-duty rubber gloves and grudgingly slide them on. I gather every cleaning agent in my arsenal, snap on my safety goggles and take a deep breath before entering the most loathsome place within 50 miles.

I turn the doorknob and enter, eyes squinted, and the first assault is rendered when I try to let go of the knob. My trusty rubber glove is stuck. Now I know where I'll begin this monumental task. Scrubbing the adhering caramel from the doorknob, I move on to the next leg of my project: the bed.

Most people consider their beds to be dream vessels; places for rest and repose. My daughter, however, has found new and innovative uses for her slumber chamber. While stripping the bed I find a small piece of a dirt dauber's nest in her pillowcase. Fortunately, it's uninhabited by the pesky black-winged pests. Nonetheless, I am unpleasantly surprised by the muddy find. Deep within the sheets' inner sanctum I also come across 2 half-eaten suckers, a wad of cotton string, 3 cotton swabs, a “D” cell battery, 4 socks (none of which form a pair) and one partially-consumed apple on a stick. Ah, yes. This must be the source of the doorknob's caramel coating. Further inspection reveals the area between the box springs and floor is a haven of rest for Olympic dust bunnies, moldy sneakers and a potpourri of broken toys.

A fresh sheet and an industrial-strength shop vac gave her sack a whole new attitude. Proudly reviewing my work, that little comfort zone looks scarily pristine aside her cluttered dresser. I lower my head, dig in my heels and approach the mountain of rubble. Her mirror is a rarely-seen, fingerprinted mass of glass. It's so buried that one may wonder if she fears her own reflection. From the top, dangles gaudy dress-up jewelry like evil weeds. Tucked into the corners ever-so-crookedly are candy wrappers and toothpicks. Funny, I don't remember ever seeing her with a toothpick.

Inspection of the drawers shows an astonishing array of articles. Until today, I classified her as a “pack rat.” I was so wrong! While “pack rats” are amateurs at collecting, my future wonder woman, at the age of 4, is already a professional! The uppermost drawers encase collections of paper clips, rubber bands, bobby pins (which I haven't seen in decades,) a peppermint lozenge, Chuck E, Cheese tokens, chewed bubblegum and 2 small, moldy, round specimens too gross to identify. In the second tier, a dead, dirty, naked Barbie has taken up residence among my daughter's pajamas. Her lifeless blue eyes in their frozen glare looked up at me in search of rescue. Three raisins and assorted bits of orange peel were hiding amongst her t-shirts as if the deeper they were buried, the more likely they would find permanent residence. The bottom drawer held an open jewelry box with a lollipop casually reclining next to the miniature ballerina which used to dance with ease as the lid opened. She hasn't danced since Crystal discovered pliers. Her jewelry lay outside of its' given box intermingled with a wiffle ball, a cup from last year's Ice Capades, a Disney video, a baseball cap and the severed remains of a chocolate chip cookie.

Reciting a calming mantra, I face my last hurdle: Crystal's closet. Doesn't that have a nice ring to it? Like a craft boutique or elite clothing store? Not a chance. This is the closet of ghastly lost and stolen articles. In it’s recesses I find one of my missing belts, assorted straight pins, thread, 4 sewing needles, and again, a mysterious, tawdry toothpick. (When did her fascination with toothpicks begin?) Inside one tennis shoe is the missing wheel from my desk chair. My tape dispenser peeks out at me from under a soiled pair of jeans. Inside her baseball glove? Take a guess. A baseball? Surely, you jest! But I did find her dad's errant car keys and her older sister's toothbrush. To complete the ensemble is the toothpaste tube oozing within the pages of a Rugrats coloring book. A single, wrapped Twinkie is neatly tucked into a corner, wrapped in a hot pink shoelace.

I don't ask “why?” anymore. Now I just ask “how?'

How does she find the time to gather this eclectic collection in the span of one week?

How does it occur to her to do some of the things she does?

How did she give birth to the concept that cleaning her lamp with petroleum jelly was a good idea? Or that cramming Cheezit crackers down the bathroom sink with the handle of a wooden spoon was a great alternative to nap time?

How will I ever keep up with her?

I can't wait until next week.

Author's Note

New to this forum. Any & all comments and critiques are requested and appreciated!