I have two daughters, aged 4 and 6.  My oldest just graduated from Kindergarten, and therefore has the inate ability to say things just like a 17-year old would, and act like a 17-month old would, at the same exact instant.  My youngest is going to start a slightly-young Kindergarten in the fall, and she is at that age where she still is ‘babyish’ cute, and knows it, and plays dirty with it. 

Suffice to say, they are a riot, and a bucketfull of laughs constantly.  They are the kind of kids that make you smile when you think of them.....at work, while walking to get a form, or make a copy, something one of those two did the night before will creep into my thoughts and make me smile.  They do that, my little Units. 

So, this is our evening.....it is pretty indicative of every evening that we have together:

About 8:25 or so, I have to give the Ten Minute Warning.  See, every time-related warning is the Ten Minute Warning.  The title is merely a formality.  A Ten Minute Warning could be 5, 10, 15, or 20 minutes, depending on the situation.  If my wife and I are involved in a card game (where I am not getting my game handed to me impolitely), or a good discussion over some Paddy’s Irish Whiskey (single malt, bought in Ireland), the Ten Minute Warning might be 15 to 25 minutes.  If we are at a party where the average age is ‘Deceased’, or where the only thing you can smell over the Ben Gay is mothballs, the Ten Minute Warning breaks at right about seven minutes.  Well, tonight, I was doing homework, so the 10MW (a little shorthand) was actually more like 17 minutes.  Note:  Bedtime is usually 8:00 PM, but I get to sleep in a bit tomorrow, for reasons I will explain later, so the kids will sleep in later as well. 

8:42:  The Terrible, Horrible Command lights out from my mouth, turning the mood in the house from happiness and gaity to dread:

“Turn the TV off.”

Wails and protestations come from the other room, but to no avail.  Daddy the Cruel has ordered the shutdown of the Babysitting Machine, and all is not well.  “We were watching that!” “ It was almost to the part I like!” “Why, Daddy?” “I wanna watch that!” Never mind that we turn off the damned thing every night before bedtime, they act as if they are getting their spines ripped out through their armpits.  Begging ensues, but I am a Rock...I am an Island, unfettered by their emotional outbursts.  They carry on, making this the hardest part of the orderal, but it lasts as long as I allow it to.....they are pretty decent kids, and know what side of the bread the butter is on. 

8:44:  The second comand is issued, and though it rarely varies in meaning or goal, the language is variable.  It can be usually written as this:

“Hey, (insert girl’s name), what’s this?  Do you want Mommy to vacuum up your (name any Barbie or Barbie toy made since 2000)?  If you want to keep it, put it away.  And, you....(insert other girl’s name)....get those shoes out of the way...(insert either ‘mommy’ or ‘daddy’ is going to fall and break his/her neck.  OK...come on...let’s go!”

This is not an original observation, but it is a truism with kids like mine:  Our house does, indeed, resemble an Auschwitz for Mattel.  Pathetic, naked Barbie dolls litter the landscape, hurredly pushed into piles, clothing and plastic jewelry gathered seperately for a look-over and distribution.  Broken playsets, with sad little unhinged doors, and once-sporty cars, lie wrecked and forgotten.  The 4-foot high Barbie house my wife and I spent a Christmas eve assembling looks like a gulag, with barely-clothed Barbies stacked like chopped wood.  Truly pathetic, and sad.  It is the way of plastic toys, I think.  If a huge industrial machine makes it, and makes a million million of it, children forget it, but the little blue blanket, and the lumpy 6-year old teddy bear, become the Velveteen Rabbits of the home. 

OK...back on topic...cleanup involves more than just the request....it involves the following steps:

Initial request:  Comes in a friendly, trusting voice.  Yes, somehow, this time will be different, the parent thinks, and hopes...this time, they will get it.  After all, we’ve gone through this personal hell for 300 nights in a row.  So, the first request is sing-songy, happy, and optimistic. 

Kids First Attempt:  The first handful of toys makes it into the toyroom.  However, the 4-year old, having the attention span of a hyperactive mayfly on speed, immediately discovers the $12,500 in toys you’ve bought over the course of her life, and sets about rooting around for one that will cause a HUGE mess. The older one is much better at this assigned task-thing, but, like a black hole, she is pulled, inexorably, into pulling toys out of the bin to help her sister. 

Secondary Request:  The sound of giggling is what fires off the mental flare....the fact that the children are having fun means that they are not doing what you asked them to do.  This is not, mo matter hos much you pray for that East Wind, Mary Poppins.  NOTHING that involves cleaning is fun for a 4 or 6 year old.  Even the lure of the vacuum cleaner has deadened a bit by this time.  So, a parent hears laughter, and the BP jumps 10%. “Please”, the parent says, loudly, and with that first shaded hint of hysteria, “Do what I asked you to do.” Now this is STUPID, on the parent’s part, because there is not a hoot in hell’s chance that the 4-year old is going to remember what you said, and all it asks for is the Informant to report in. 

The Informant:  The 6-year old marches in, imperious in her self-importance, and in the importance of her mission.  She must Tell On Her Sister.  “Brigid is playing with her toys.” Now, and of course, she was doing the same exact thing nineteen seconds before, but she is a bit quicker on the draw than her sister, and runs faster, so she gets the stage first.  Now, the sheepish 4-year old comes in, looking at her feet, and mumbling.  The parent, impatient, and not wanting to take the time to figure out why the 4-year old was doing this (because IT WAS THERE), gets irritated at the 6-year old for telling, and snaps at her.  This upsets the confidence of the 6-year old, and she starts to get the chin-quiver. 

Now, NEVER let the child cry.  This is a momentum-breaker for the Nightly Clean-Up, folks, and no matter if you are a “Hug+it’s all-right” kind of person, or a “Suck it UP, Soldier!” type, a cry is an automatic 10-minute extension of the cleaning process.  So, an emotion intervention is required.  For me, it’s a hug, a tickle, and a nice, shadowy apology, accompanied with a short explanation about being a tattle-tale:

Me:  Honey, you shouldn’t tattle.
Brenna(6):  Why, Daddy?
Me:  Mommy’s and Daddy’s don’t need to know every little thing.  And, kids don’t like tattle-tales.  They won’t be nice to you. 
Brenna:  When do I tell on Brigid, then?
Me:  If one of you are bleeding, or on fire. 

Momentum is restored. 

Final Request:  After the Informant Crisis is averted, the parent calls both children in for the Final Request, called an Ultimatum.  This usually involves the withdrawal of a good thing (a planned treat), or the introduction of a Bad Thing (a ‘spankin’.  However, the Ultimatum, though harsh, is the most effective. 

Or, the Fun Time Helper:  The Parent goes in, and makes it a fun thing, usually by going to the site of the Clean-Up and acting the fool.  The parent says, “Come on, Bubbles, let’s move!  You’re a pokey-hokey.”, or, “Are you asleep?  You better not be!” Tickling is involved as well.  This serves to both exhaust the children and the adult. 

8:54:  Up the stairs.  One sits on the toilet while the other brushes her teeth.  It’s a symphony...tinkling on one side, usually accompanied by light young girl chatter, with the RRERRERERERRERRERERER of the electric toothbrush in the other ear.  After the slower of the two is done with her assignment (usually the 6-year old), they switch.  After care of the two orifaces is complete, the 6-year old is sent into her room for pajamas, and the 4-year old is led into her room by Dad, who helps her get ready. 

If I help the 6-year old, I get drawn into discussions that might last well over three days.  They are like this:

Brenna:  Why is the turtle green?
Dad:  Well, he comes from a pond.  Being green helps him to hide in the water, around the plants.
Brenna:  Oh...so, if the water were blue, like in the ocean, the turtles would be blue, too? 
Dad:  Right.
Brenna:  But the water in the ocean isn’t blue, Daddy.  It’s kinda...brown and green.
Dad: (headache starting) That’s true, but the turtles from the ocean are brown and green, too. 
Brenna:  Why is the water on the globe blue?
Dad:  Well, it’s hard to explain, but when you put a lot of water in one place, and look at it from a ways away, it looks blue. 
Brenna:  Daddy, do turtles pee in the water?
Dad: (headache well established) Yes, Brenna, they do.
Brenna:  Eww...we swam in that...where they peed?

I therefore choose, of my own free will, to help the 4-year old.  It makes life easier. 

Then, I tuck her in, and kiss her little round (round round round) face, and give her a little tickle.  I tell her I love her, and that I will see her tomorrow.  Then, leaving her with her blue blanket, I close her door and go to her older sister, and tuck her in with ‘Teddy’.  she gets a tickle, or a funny little statement, and I leave her. 

9:08:  Before I leave the upstairs, I call out:

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite!”

Immediately after, in some sort of life-extending stereo, I hear two small, bright, happy, loved voices, chime in:

“Don’t let the Bedbugs bite!”

Good Night.

Oh, say can you see, by the dawn’s early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,
O’er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream:
‘Tis the star-spangled banner! O long may it wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has wiped out their foul footstep’s pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved homes and the war’s desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: “In God is our trust.”
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!