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Mom's Last Stand Against Clutter Her trifocals sparkled when she saw me at the fabric-cutting counter. “How ever do you have time for sewing with those two babies?” “Well,” I snorted, “it’s simply because I rarely clean my house.” Oh, how tempted I was to take her words to heart, forgiving myself for the vortex of chaos I called home. How alluring her words of understanding seemed as they reached across to my frazzled mommy-mania. My shoulders had begun to relax when my vision cleared, and I recognized her true identity: Pure Evil. Without a doubt, that sweet head of white hair concealed her association with the worst hell-devil himself, the malevolent demon, Clutter. The first imperative to remember is that Clutter is a not a collection of junk, Clutter is a Force. Secondly, we Moms are not just sloppy and our children not merely pigs; we are under attack and at war with Clutter. And thirdly—pay close attention, now—Clutter is a Shape Shifter. His masks are many: the stray groceries that don’t quite make it into the pantry; the Happy Meal toys and trash in the backseat; the broken crayons too beautiful to throw away that must reside in the bottom of the drawer and on the floor...these are disguises of our opponent, Clutter! I have attacked him in the front yard, bringing order to the skateboards and basketballs seemingly left behind from a swarm of children. Utterly naked and defenseless, I have engaged him in the shower, tossing empty shampoo bottles and gooey shards of soap. I have clashed with him on the living room battlefield, sorting shoes, socks, orphaned homework, and magazines. All this and more have I undertaken in my struggle against his evil anarchy, only to find myself gutted and disordered time and again despite my best efforts. That wicked fabric-buying grandmother of his nearly hypnotized me into his powers, but I was too quick for them both. Surrender, never! Recently, I braved a daring endeavor into the darkest lair of his underworld: my daughter’s closet. My junior warrior by my side, we busied ourselves shelving shoes, sorting Barbie clothing, organizing belts, jewelry, coloring books, categorizing hanging clothes, and discarding outgrown garments. Swords flashing, we grouped board games and outdoor toys, even reuniting puzzle pieces with their grieving families. The villainous Clutter wheezed in the distance, gasping for air, begging for mercy. With hands on our hips and capes fluttering in the central air conditioning breeze, we surveyed our handiwork. Giving my 6 year old a congratulatory high five for a job well done, I headed straight for the linen closet in a frenzy of bloodlust. But while my back was turned for sixty seconds, Clutter infiltrated my daughter’s orderly room and burped two pairs of flip-flops right out of the seams in the carpet. I know it was him because she has absolutely no idea how they got there. Blast him, that Clutter. In recent weeks he has pillaged my car. Just six months ago, we chained our children to washrags and trash sacks and completely detailed the SUV. It is common knowledge to Moms everywhere that when something is cleaned, it then stays clean forever; when it doesn’t stay clean forever, Clutter’s nasty paw prints are all over it. Sunflower seeds, broken Sonic Styrofoam cups with dried red slushy syrup, straw wrappers, gas receipts—how I rage against his sinister plot. In the meantime take heart, and keep the following basic weapons against Clutter close at hand: (1) front end loader and (2) dumpster. And you can count on me to do my part...the next time I see that Godless Jezebel grandma of his at Hobby Lobby, I’m going to empty my back seat into her purse.
Sheryl Oliver is a 41 year old high school English teacher from Texas. She has two children, Josh and Sassy, and has been married to her husband Mark for almost 20 years. When not helping lead music at her church or attending baseball and basketball games, you can find her selling junk on Ebay, writing, and playing with her fledgling collection of treasured childhood action figures, the most recent additions being Popeye and Olive Oyl. Her love of writing comes from a mother who was a reading teacher and a father who was a superb storyteller. She has yet to convince her husband to agree with her theory about the nature of clutter.
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