My mamma didn't say...

This is a flashback of sorts. I've been struggling with the kids to get their rooms cleaned. I tried all the corporate management tricks in the book. I tried shared vision. I've tried to synergize with them. I've tried next action orientation. They so were not buying.

So finally I tapped my memory. What would get me to clean up my room as a child?

I seriously thought about that. The answer? Nothing. Not a god damn mutherfucking thing. This stumped me for a while. Then I asked myself what would happen just prior to my room being clean?

My mom would come in and throw a bunch of shit away.

Simple? Yes. Was I rat bastard about it? Yes I was. I'm sure she was throwing shit away when I wasn't looking. I would lay there sulking the whole time, but would be so happy when I clean room. So I did it. I went into Max's room and I threw a bunch of shit away. I made no excuses and did not require him to do much. Sam pitched in too. (We're doing her room next.)

Did he cry? No he's 11.
Was he pissed? Oddly enough, no.
He was very grateful. He kept thanking me.

So I said to him, "When you are 37 and throwing shit away in your kid's room, I want you to call me and thank me then." (Yes I said shit. They know that one. Somehow curse words make chores a little easier. A spoon full of profanity helps the medicine go down.) He protested that he isn't going to have kids. I said, "Yeah whatever. You call me when you're 37 in your kid's room throwing shit away."

Then it dawned on me.

I called my mom.