The Crystal Meatball

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Yesterday, one of the tasks on my List of Things to Do When Not Doing Much of Anything Else list was “Clean Iz’s room.” She had cleaned her room on Saturday; however, her definition of “clean” and mine were pages apart in the dictionary. Actually, her definition of clean was really “orderly disorder.”

She had cleaned enough, so I could see most of the floor. Clothes were no longer strewn over the floor, her night table chair, and bed. Now they were shoved into the drawers of her bureau with a pant leg hanging out the corner of one drawer and the sleeve of a shirt hanging out the corner of another drawer.

Piles of toys were pushed into all the corners of her room. A small velour blanket was spread over the unmade bed. I was told that “Liam likes this blanket” on the bed, which was Iz’s way of playing the feline card, which always beats Mom’s Clean House hand, to avoid making the bed.

Anyway, Iz cleaned her room, but for all intents and purposes, it was not done with the word “clean” in mind. It was done with the thought “Must do the minimal to get Mommy off my case!” Of course, I did approved her “clean” room; I knew that it was “as good as it gets” until she cared about a clean room, which probably wouldn’t occur until she was 30.

At 10am, armed with a trash can and a vacuum cleaner, I entered her room. I looked around. Then I immediately wanted to leave her room and retreat to Law & Order!

I began in one corner. Amidst the stuffed animals, tubes of lip gloss, and Polly Pocket clothing, there was always a petrified balled-up sock or two or three. It was always one which I thought had succumbed to Bermuda Triangle in the dryer. Of course, I had always pitched the odd sock that was presumed missing in the dryer, and once again, I was left with more odd socks.

I have a love-dislike relationship with Polly Pocket dolls. When I was little I had a similar doll, a Dawn doll. She was small like Polly, but her clothes were not made out of plastic. I really liked her because she was so tiny.

I guess since I had always been taller than average growing up, Dawn’s petite stature intrigued me. Oddly, it would appear this fascination with petite would follow me in friendship as most of my friends are much shorter than I am. And, Cathy, I’m 5’10”; you are 5’9”!

Anyway, I disliked Polly at the same time, because her accessories were so tiny. These little pieces of plastic got lost easily, and Iz wasn’t one for keeping her things “together.” When I was little, I could account for every outfit and pair of shoes that my Barbie owned. I kept a mental inventor; however, perhaps this was due to having a younger sister, which often had me thinking that at any time my things could disappear with a simple “No. I didn’t take your Barbie’s maxi dress!”

The only person in the house who seemed to thoroughly enjoy Polly Pocket was the kitten, Plume. She liked to jump up on Iz’s bureau, grab a plastic dress in her mouth, jump down, drop it on the floor, and then bat it around the house. When Iz and I were out shopping last weekend, she pointed to some cat toy and said, “We should get this for Plume” to which I said, “I think she’s doing just fine with Polly Pocket’s clothes.”

So, the vacuum was an obvious cleaning tool once I uncovered more of the floor. But, what about the wastebasket? The reason for that was, one, Iz’s love of paper, particularly post-it notes, two, her love of cutting paper, three, her love of printing out tons of things off of the Disney and Nickelodeon websites, and, lastly, Happy Meal toys.

I could deal with the discarded post-it notes that said, “No boys alawed,” the little bits of paper from her snowflake-making period, and the print outs of Hannah Montana and the Jonas Brothers. Most of the paper got thrown away. I figured if it was rolled up in a ball, buried under a pile of stuffed animals on the floor, or a post-it note stuck to Liam’s fluffy rear-end, it could be discard without any parental guilt.

I try to feed Iz a good dinner most nights of the week. But on those frantic nights or for a “treat,” I do end up taking her to McDonald’s for a Happy Meal every now and then. The tough thing about Happy Meals is not that they’re not particularly “healthy,” it’s that those darn toys seem to multiply like rabbits if you’re not careful!

Every six months or so, I go through Iz’s toy box and bedroom, and I try to weed them all out. Some Iz discards the moment she opens them with a “Aw, I already have this one” or “I don’t like this.” But, it appeared from Iz’s room yesterday that Happy Meal toys breed all year long, and their favorite hiding spot is under piles of stuffed animals using the petrified balled up socks as camouflage!

Lately, it seemed that Iz was actually getting to the age where the Happy Meal toy was losing some of its appeal. Last month, sensing herself that her desire for the toy had lessened, she tried mixing things up a bit by saying to me one night, “Mommy, tell them I’m a boy.” She wanted “boy toy,” and I hope her only “boy toy” remains the one in the Happy Meal for quite some time.

As we went through the drive-thru, she’d sink down in the backseat. I think she was fearful that they’d figure out they were giving a girl a “boy toy,” and then somehow she’d be banished from McDonald’s for life. That night, she ripped open the plastic bag, pulled out some kind of techo gizmo, and then uttered a disappointed, “Oh.” That was the end of her “boy toy” phase.

As I was cleaning her room, I found the last toy she had received. This one I particularly disliked, because the night she got it, my parental authority came into question. I was temporarily overthrown and replaced by a magic meatball, the iCarly magic meatball.

I had to laugh, because it was not unlike the Magic 8-Ball I had when I was young. I remember asking the 8-Ball, “Will school be cancelled tomorrow?”, “Does Chris Trimper like me?”, and “Is Mom making lamb chops for dinner tonight?” By the way, Chris Trimper did like me until I ran up to him on the playground and kissed him; I was never shy, but we already knew that, didn’t we?!

Anyway, that night I said to Iz, “It’s time for a bath.” She responded like always, “No!!!!” Then she quickly said, “Let’s ask the magic meatball!”

I said, “The what?” She ran into the family room, grabbed something, and came back into the kitchen. She held this red plastic meatball like she was holding an ancient Egyptian artifact. She then asked, “Magic meatball, do I have to take a bath now?”

She pressed and button and it spoke. “The meatball says no.” She looked at me and said, “See. I don’t have to!”

In two minutes, I had gone from Mother to Less Than Meatball. She turned around and went to back into the family room. I said, “Wait a minute! You’re taking a bath now.”

I had to give her an A for effort in trying to get me to believe that the Meatball was now Mom. She said, “Mom, but the meatball said….” I said, “It’s time for a bath,” in my “I am more powerful than a magic meatball” voice.

She sighed, made a face, and then she headed upstairs. I picked up the meatball and pressed the button a few times. The meatball’s repertoire was limited to “The answer is yes,”
“Ask again later,” and “The meatball says no” all said as if Peter Lorre had been reincarnated as a red plastic meatball.

When I found the meatball yesterday, I asked it, “Magic meatball, should I throw you away?” I pressed the button. The magic meatball said, “Ask again later.” I said, “The answer is yes,” and threw it in the trash can!

After two hours in Iz’s room (and that was without even venturing into her closet), I left with a basket full of trash and a vacuum cleaner bag that contained 15 more lady bug carcasses. The stuffed animals were stuffed in the closet, the lip glosses were sorted in a basket, the pencils and pens were in her desk, and the bureau no longer reminded me of Steven King’s short story, “The Mangler.”

I was exhausted just looking at all the stuff I pulled out of her room. I then remembered that I hadn’t run or biked in two days, so I wanted to go to the gym. If I did, I knew I’d miss spending the afternoon with Iz; I was ball of indecision.

Iz had been asking me over and over when we could dye Easter eggs. (Of course, “When can we dye Easter eggs?” was totally lost on that magic meatball!) I glanced at the meatball in the trash can, reached out and picked it up, and then asked, “Magic meatball, should I forget about the gym and dye Easter eggs with Iz?” I pressed the button, and Peter Lorre said, “The answer is yes.”

I got up, threw my sneakers back under my bureau, and put the magic meatball back on top of Iz’s bureau. I decided I could live with the meatball, as long as it knew its place, which was under a pile of stuff animals or on top of a plate of plastic spaghetti. Ten yellow, blue, green and red fingers and a dozen multi-colored hard-boiled eggs later, I knew that sometimes the meatball could be right. ♥