Is that chicken nuggets I smell?
There are a million things that my father did in the name of parenting that well, normal people would likely NOT do. For example, when I was a kid I had a hamster and called him Thumper. I returned one day from a weekend at my Grandmas, to find Thumper MIA. I’m sure there was lots of things that went on that day, but the only thing I remember is my father looking at me and explaining that because I didn’t keep Thumpers cage clean, he had put him in the microwave to put Thumper “out of his misery.” I am positive I was like every other kid on the planet that assured their parents that a new pet was going to be all my responsibility, and then didn’t meet my end of the bargain. Shocker. As a result, Thumpers blood was now on my hands. That is how I remember that day. Always and oddly enough, often. Weird, I know. That type of thing is one of the literal million things I would NOT do. However, trash bag cleaning is a system passed down to me by the crazy guy that actually seems to be effective most of the time.
What is trash bag cleaning you say? Trash bag cleaning is based on the principal that what you care about, you take care of. Everyone knows that if Mom asks you to clean up your room, you clean it before she does, because she is not going to use the same amount of care for your collection of old gum wrappers as you are. Enter trash bag. Its out on the floor, it shouldn’t be, it mine. My father used to make a big pile on the floor, set a timer, and whatever was left when the buzzer went off no longer belonged to me and he could do with it what he pleased. Again, enter trash bag. I skip out on the timer part, because well, anxiety. I do give you usually a week or more of daily warnings followed by a final, “You don’t want me to clean this up do you?” warning.
One of the bedrooms was hard to walk through and the closets had spilled over into the room. I had been asking since Christmas for things to be picked up. Food trash surrounded me, (food isn’t even supposed to be in there but food insecurity is a trauma behavior and I pick and choose my battles), and there was now a mysterious odor present. This time the 432 warnings and requests to clean up went ignored. Enter trash bag, my childhood friend. I started the dig out process by hanging up all the clothes for them, because I’m nicer than a particular male member of the generation before me. I sorted out the clothes for the drawers. Any obvious trash and anything that I thought needed to be touched with tongs went into the trash bag. Including a vast number of vapes which of course belong that kid that lives here, whom I have never seen. They go by the name, “Not me.” I am sure you all know that kid. Causes an awful lot of trouble around here and yet still manages to never be seen. Anyway, I had two “helpers” and by helpers I mean mostly watchers that let out the occasional, “OMG thats gross” and carried trash bags outside for me. Much appreciated ladies.
Having finished the closets, (I have spared you the worst details – you’re welcome), I made my way to beds and eliminated dishes, chicken nuggets, and as many cheez-it crumbs as I could. I assume everyone keeps their emergency leftover chicken nuggets in bed under the duvet to age like a fine wine. That said, I was pretty sure they were well past their prime and likely contributing to the stink, so hello trash bag.
Two trash bags later, and a lot of sweat, one of the “helpers” says, “You’re going to shower after this right?” Ummm yes, helper child. Twice.
The other girls return home to bask in the glory of a clean room. That must be nice, huh? One tells me what a good job I did and follows it up with, “I was going to take care of that.” Save it, kid.
The next morning, after four of them miss the bus, and my daily, do you have a shirt on under that routine, I stop in the bedroom. What do I find? Half of an old avocado and a spoon in a baggie. I can only be grateful that firstly, it’s sealed in a baggie and secondly, it’s not a salad fork.
