Dear Nirvana Reader,
I come to you. Not because others have. I come to you to tell my story of havoc. I come to you to not for sympathy. Bah Humbug on sympathy. I don’t need any therapeutic talk. My life delights me.
I am Holly’s toy closet.
I am situated next to the living room in a convenient location under the stairs. My expanse is great. My ceilings are angled. Holly designed me with 5 shelves filled with wicker baskets and enough space to accommodate books standing in a row. She covered my concrete floor with a fluffy play-friendly rug. Because of my handy location I am an obvious catch-all. When the doorbell rings…my door opens and toys get thrown into me at a pace that would rival a major league pitch. That makes sense. It is good to have a place to hide things temporarily.
Every once in awhile my perky hostess takes an afternoon to sort me out. She pulls all the toys out into the entry. Sorts them by shape, color and age suitability. She sends 80% of my contents to who knows elsewhere and then packs me naively back with the wicker baskets and Brother P-touch labels into pristine condition.
This girl. She isn’t just a half-full kind of person. She is a “it really looks like it might be 3/4 full and I am going to sip slowly and enjoy it, but I am sure there is more” kind of person. What a load of optimistic crap.
Let us have a reality check. THREE BOYS. MILLIONS OF TOYS. Three boys whose millions of toys have millions of pieces. Millions of pieces, Oh the joy! Boys. Toys. Pieces. Joy!
So I ask what is the point of the toy sort? Why does she waste her time? She doesn’t know my nature. I live on chaos. Messy is my middle name…Holly’s MESSY Toy closet (I guess Messy is my first name). Whatever. What do I care. I am a mess. I can take a pristine toy sort and turn it into toy hell in less then 15 minutes. Don’t think I can’t. Don’t underestimate me. Let me prove it:
Boys. Toys. Pieces. JOY!
Oh, the sight of me just makes me happy. But what tickles me even more is the horrified gasp and naughty word muttering that happens every time Holly opens the door. Now that is worth my existence. Don’t pity me. I am in a good place.
Lovingly,
Holly’s messy toy closet of the devil
P.S. Where are Maisy’s pants?
I think Maisy’s pants are somewhere in my toy closet! How did that happen?
This is exactly the reason my children are not allowed to have toys, just saves so much time in the long run. Here kids, go busy yourself with some spoons and and tupperware lids. They know no different. They’ll turn out fine, right?
I loved this … thanks Holly’s closet for sharing your wisdom.
A toy messy closet sounds wonderful – we have two rooms .. make that four with toys spread everywhere and we only have two small boys and 1 monster teen.
I am so glad I am not alone LOL in my OCD sorting the million of toys and pieces.
Definitely not alone on this one. I love the feeling of well sorted toys, all housed in baskets, tucked away.
I’ve also told my daughter to step away from her organized toys, begging her to just give me a moment to enjoy things picked up!
oh honey….!!! I just this week, no kidding purchased from Target containers that my three boys CAN NOT OPEN. Hallelujah!!! They are now stacked high on a shelf. They must ask me for permission to get a tub of toys down. I will only take down a few at a time, and guess what, they can’t figure out how to open these things. So my playroom has been clean, usable space for a week. The longest. I loved your invitation into the mind of your closet. I just have one question….how did you break into my house and take that picture of what my playroom has looked like for months?
LOL! Get used to it…. it never ends.
Your closet, my WHOLE house… and I only have the ONE boy 😛
thanks for the laughs!!!
I am scared of the baby house. Especially since Maisy and I are almost the same size…I fear our fates may match and I’ll end up lost in the pile – and possibly with missing pants too. Now THAT’S scary!
Hmmm. I do that same thing whenever I walk in to my kid’s playroom (the exclaming and the naughty word muttering whenever I open a door.) Who knew I was merely spreading cheer…
Too funny. This is how I feel about my daughter’s closet. Or rather how my daughter’s closet feels about me.