"Home Invasion"

 
Home Invasion
By Allan Olson
 My home has a problem. It’s been invaded.
 I’m not sure where the invaders came from, but I think I can narrow down the time frame to nearly eight years ago, with the birth of my first son, Nikolai.
 The invaders come in all sizes, colors and shapes, and some make all kinds of different noises.
       These invaders don’t have the capability of moving on their own, but they always seem to be in the way.
    The invaders I’m talking about are the toys belonging to my four children.
   I know that my kids have toys, and a lot of them. I never really knew how many until I started going through them. I’m not sure how they got so many toys. I’m sure we bought them a few for birthdays, Christmas, etc.
    In the last week, my wife and I have sorted through all of our kids’ toys. That was a job. Of course, we were smart enough to do this without any assistance from the four always helpful children. During this process we started purging. The first to go was all the baby stuff. We have no infants, so we don’t need this stuff anymore.
 Also heading to the trash were broken toys, along with toys that never really worked from the beginning, and toys that were packed away because we thought that maybe “... someday, they will play with this again.”
   My children have a problem, an affliction that most children get. It’s called, “I don’t know how to pick up the toys.” The girls are the worst.
     “Pick up your toys,” we tell them.
 “We need help,” they say.
   Then I start getting annoyed. “You don’t need help making the mess, why do you need help cleaning it up?”
    “It’s too hard,” Abigail will say.
  When they do start picking them up, it soon turns into an all-out war. We never know which room is going to break out in an argument or fight first, but  it almost always happens.
     “Marcus isn’t helping,” Nikolai will say. “I am too,” Marcus says. Then all is quiet for a minute. “Nikolai isn’t helping . . .” And the battle continues.
    At the other end of the hall, the same saga plays out with the girls. Usually one will come out crying or tattling on the other, followed by the other telling their side of the story.
    What should be a 30-minute job takes hours.
 Last weekend, the parents cleaned the rooms and more purging was done.
    One problem. I failed to remove the remaining tote full of toys to be put away.
 In less than 10 minutes the girls had money on the floor from their new store set and were trying to figure out how to re-assemble the grocery cart.
   Dad was not happy.
    “Get this picked up,” I told them.
 “We want to play shopping,” Abigail said.
 “No, put it back,” I said. “Play with the toys I left out.”
   “We need help,” the girls said. “It’s too hard.”
       I refused to budge.
    “No,” I said.
     Then the waterworks started.
    I still didn’t care.
    In the end, I won. They picked up the toys, and I removed the tote from the room. Now I just have to get it out of the house.
   As for the boys, they just had the Legos out in their room, but they, too, were required to have them picked up before supper.
       It’s amazing how fast toys can accumulate and how much room they can take up. What’s scary is the amount of money that was spent to acquire all of them.
  Of course, we won’t talk about the money I’ve spent on books and computer games over the years.
      Recently, I turned my attention to cleaning my own room. While I was in the middle of this task, Abigail came in. “I want a hug,” she said. “Why,” I asked. “Because I’m a big, grouchy daddy”
   There was a few seconds pause with her little arms wrapped around me. “No,” she said. “Because your the best dad.”
   Back to the subject of toy purging. I think it’s time for a “toy strike.” Perhaps I should ask them and see what they think about the idea of no more new toys.
Published 1.19.11