Homewrecker

Now that he walks, Westley is a force of nature. He is a big, bad toddler-wolf, and he's going to blow my house down. I never knew that a determined 14-month-old could tear a room apart in ten minutes. A room that then takes an hour to put back in order.

The speed and thoroughness with which Tropical Storm Westley strikes is driving me insane. I'd like to throw my hands in the air and my eyes to the heavens and say, "All right, I give up!" and embrace the clutter and chaos. It would make my life a lot easier, but I can't do it. I'm one of those visually-oriented people, whose mental and physical well being are significantly influenced by their environment. I'm not a neat freak--not by any stretch of the imagination. I just feel better when my books and CDs and kitchen utensils are not strewn all over the apartment.

Let me quickly say that this is not an issue of childproofing. Not really. We're childproofed as best as we can be without completely replacing major belongings. This is an issue of a boy with a newly discovered love of walking, and all that it enables him to see, reach, grab, and fling. And it's an issue of space. If I haven't said so before, our apartment is teeny. It's a converted basement, and there's not a lot of room for storage, built-in or furniture-type. The kitchen/living room area has a small pantry built-in with the cabinets. Westley's room used to be a laundry room; no closet there. The one closet in the house is actually just the space under the stairs. There's a lot of stuff that I would love to store out of toddler reach, but there's nowhere to put it. So it all stays out, and gets flung across the living room.

Every time I tell my mother about Westley destroying the house, she mentions a woman she knew who had four children whom she was home with all the time. This woman would clean and tidy up her house, and then promptly get herself and her children out the door. They would come home from whatever their errand or activity was to a neat, clean house. I love the sound of this, except I can't imagine how it works. In the time it takes me to get Westley and myself ready to leave the house, he can make a pile of books and toys and lingerie bigger than himself in the middle of the living room rug.

Cleaning up after an active, curious toddler is truly a Sisyphean task. It's the Myth of Messephone, Queen of the Underwear Drawer, doomed to pick up her bras and panties and nightgowns while her son simultaneously tangles them up with his stacking rings and stuffed animals...forever.

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