My children are pigs. Opening a package? Eh, just throw the wrapper on the floor. Having a glass of chocolate milk? Leave it sitting on the kitchen counter, or on the dresser in your bedroom until that last inch turns chunky. Done with those clothes for the day? Just leave them on your floor. Unless it’s your socks, in which case they should be left on the living room floor. Having a caramel apple but get full? No problem. Just leave it on an end table. Using a marker, pen, pencil or crayon? Leave it uncapped and laying on the floor; the younger kids need something with which to write on themselves and the walls. Want to play with a toy, or better yet, a toy with multiple pieces? Of course your bedroom will never do, so drag all that crap into a hallway, then immediately get bored and wander off.
My mama would have lit my butt on fire for such things, and rightly so. My kids, however, seem to forget everything they hear between stern lectures and threats of physical retribution.
Damn the school system for releasing the monsters for almost three weeks! Sheesh.
(You know I love ’em … but I’d love ’em even more if they’d pick up after themselves.)
Steven E. Wedel 
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