And taps was played over a clean bedroom
Are We There Yet?
LORI CLINCH
Icleaned Little Charlie's room last week. You show me someone who doesn't think that's noteworthy and I'll show you someone who has never seen Little Charlie's room. Charlie likes Army men. He likes Jeeps, tanks, trucks, and his mantra is "The more the merrier!" Charlie works for hours setting up his brigade, and at the end of a day's playing, it looks as if a miniature battle of Iwo Jima has taken place.

Following distribution of his plastic troops, Charlie takes off his socks and tosses them into the mix. Oftentimes he enjoys a Pop-Tart with his platoon, and if the timing is right and the day calls for a celebration with a sport drink, its contents are consumed and the empty bottle is then added to the task force. Then there are gum wrappers, paper scraps, and for reasons that we may never understand, broken crayons and paperclips.

To put it simply, Charlie's room is a stinking mess.

Sadly enough, this dirty little area has been on display through many social gatherings. It's seen the Big 12 Championship, a New Year's Eve celebration, and several of our college-bound son's community parties.

Armed with a roll of caution tape and an alarm system worthy of a federal vault, I've sealed Charlie's room off from the public view weekend after weekend.

Alas, it was for naught, for nothing short of planting myself in front of the door would keep the curious minds out. In fact, the caution tape and closed door only seemed to draw people in. They seemed to know that something interesting was on the other side - and, quite frankly, inquiring minds wanted to know.

"I just love your house," a gal said to me during a gathering of some sort.

"Thank you," I responded happily.

"Your rooms all seem to have themes. I love the Fisherman's bathroom, the Drop Your Drawers laundry room and the Cozy Cove for covers. But I've never seen a theme quite like the one you used for the little bedroom downstairs. Who would ever have thought that one could combine a military theme with candy wrappers? And it totally works with the caution tape strewn about. It gives a total new meaning to trash-can art."

"Thank you," I replied sarcastically. "Word on the base has it that we'll one day be featured in the Garbage Man's Journal."

Although some might think that a trash-can art theme could be quite catchy, the time had come when I could take it no more. Charlie's room had to be cleaned.

As I descended the stairs on that cold and gloomy day, I could almost hear the tension build on the level below me.

It would seem that little Charlie knew his mother was coming to make him clean his room, and he handled it the only way he knew how: by donning his fatigues, grabbing a plastic toy tank and hiding in the barracks.

You would have thought I was the enemy as he closed in on the camp. In fact, I'm quite sure that I couldn't have seemed more menacing to my youngest child if I had been coming to order him to clean the latrine.

"Charlie," I called in a hushed tone as I looked under the bed, "it is time."

Charlie and I stood side by side and examined his filthy little vestibule. To say that it seemed overwhelming would have been an understatement. Toys were strewn about, filth cluttered up the corners, and something that may or may not have been a small animal occupied the corner.

As I pulled debris and compiled rubbish, Little Charlie scooped up his clutter with a deep sigh. Every so often he'd sing out a bluesy song about despair and agony. Once in a while he'd throw himself into a heap and cry out, "Why, why, why?" then he'd sing a hillbilly song about deep, dark, depressive, excessive misery. His performance was worthy of an Oscar.

We finished the room late in the day. The sunlight had left the sky, the animals had gone to bed and nightfall fell across the land. But it was worth it. For the first time in what seemed like years, I turned and looked at the room with a smile.

"What do you think, Charlie?" I asked as I laid a hand on his shoulder.

"I think that was 20 hours of my life that I'll never get back."

"Yes, but your bunk is fresh, your quarters are clean, and your closet would pass the most stringent of inspections."

"I think I would have been just as happy if we had let the trash-can art people induct me into the Hall of Fame."

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch. com.