My girls, Kathi and Lynda, shared an always-messy room. Toys littered the floor, books cluttered unmade beds. Sure they were only six and eleven years old, but they were capable of making that room sparkle—when they wanted to.

One morning at breakfast, I browsed through an old magazine. One photo showed a little girl’s room with not a toy or piece of paper out of place. I thought of my daughter ’s room and well… I'd just had enough.

"Straighten up this room, or else, " I ordered.

I had heard my own mother used that phrase and it always worked. I remember slapping those sheets into position, dusting my dresser and hiding my toys in the bottom drawer. I knew a good spanking would result if I didn’t get that room in shape pretty quick. But to my girls, I thoughtfully added, “As soon as your room is clean we'll go to Duck Park for a picnic. "

“Duck Park? You’re Okay, Mom.” Kathi said.

Lynda danced around the room grabbing toys off the floor and tossing them into the toy bin.

Saturday was the only day I had to prepare the house for the work week. If I could scrub kitchen and bathroom floors, vacuum all the carpets, dust every knick-knack, wash the sliding glass door and do
laundry and ironing for the three of us, surely those girls could clean one small room.

That day, their enthusiasm for the job filled me with pride. As I tossed a load of clothes in the washer, I admired my parenting skills. First, I had demanded that the girls perform a specific task, and then I had
offered an incentive. They’d have that room picture-perfect in no time.

But the day dragged on. I stopped by and found Lynda coloring.

“You’re supposed to be cleaning your room," I reminded.

“Okay, Mom.” Kathi tugged on the rumpled bedspread that halfway covered her bed.

“We're working on it, Mom." With one hand, Lynda Frisbeed her coloring book across the room where it landed on top of the bookcase next to a grungy Pooh Bear. As I left, she was picking up her crayons. Bless their hearts.

Later, when I peeked in, they were lying on their beds reading.
“Oh, we’re just resting a minute,” Kathi explained.
“Ten minutes max.”

Ten minutes? You couldn ’t even see the floor yet!

When it was too late to go for the picnic at the park, I gave them peanut butter sandwiches and glasses of milk. They ate in their room.

As I carried their paper plates away, I said, "Get this room done. And don't come out until it ’s clean."

Anger began to bubble up. Is it really too much to ask to have a tidy house? Some people enjoy clutter-less homes, I thought as I remembered the picture in the magazine.

By mid-afternoon anger had boiled to the furious stage. I continued to simmer.

When I had dinner’s meat loaf in the oven, I stopped by their room to see how they were doing. They were playing with their Barbie dolls.

“That's it!” I rubbed a throbbing spot on my temple.
"You have one hour to get this room cleaned up or everything in the room will go in a garbage bag. Everything. "

Lynda clutched Pooh bear and sobbed. Kathi’s eyebrows knit together. Neither girl responded.

An hour later, books had been stuffed in shelves, Kathi’s bedspread hung half on the bed and puddled on the floor. Barbie’s feet stuck out of Lynda’s half closed drawer. The room certainly didn ’t look tidy.

At that point, I decided to help them--though not as a kind, loving mother. I was more like a staff sergeant ordering his patrol about.

"Pick up that, " I demanded. "Fold this." "Smooth out that bedspread."

When at last the room looked the way I wanted, I screamed, "Now get your showers and go to bed."

Lynda looked up with serious eyes. “But I thought we were going to Duck Park.”

I couldn’t even answer. I just left the room.

Later, when I went in to tell them goodnight, I found two little angels lying on fresh white sheets in beautifully made beds. They had even put away the clothes they had worn that day. I was so proud of them. Nothing was out of place. Their room looked like a picture from a magazine.

As I turned to leave, I saw the words, "I HATE MOM!" boldly printed on the back of their door with a black felt tip marker. I HATE MOM! It even had a huge exclamation point at the end.

Not tonight, I decided. I won't deal with this tonight. I closed their door behind me…a bit too un-gently.

After breakfast the following day, I gave each girl a basin of water and a cloth "Remove it." I ordered. They didn ’t even ask what it was they were to remove.

Now, I have to give them credit. They really tried to rid the door of the offending phrase. They tried soap and water, powdered cleansers and a scrubber, but those words would not come off.

Yesterday’s headache returned. “You have to think of something,” I told them. “I don’t want to see that sentence every time I come into your room. ”

And on that note, we headed off to church. It was a silent ride to church. Usually, we laughed and talked and sang. They didn’t even talk to each other and I certainly had nothing to say to them.

There was nothing particularly uplifting about the service. No bright prophetical light showed me how to remedy the tension in my home. I was angry with my daughters and obviously they were angry with me.

I prepared lunch in silence and we ate in silence at my linen covered maple dining table. As soon as they finished their food, they dutifully carried their empty plates to the kitchen sink. That afternoon they
played in their room while I washed the last load of clothes.

Later when I went into their room with a stack of folded laundry I saw the sentence again. Now it read, “ I HATE (D) MOM! ”

For some reason, I liked the past tense of that phrase. I began to laugh. The girl's rushed into my arms for hugs. We spent the rest of the afternoon at Duck Park swinging, going down the slide and hanging
our feet in the duck pond. My headache vanished like a morning dream.

I've often thought how I might have handled those two days differently. I could have left their room as it was. I could have helped them clean the room, without the shouts and orders. Either way, we would've enjoyed our picnic at the park and each other.

By the way, those words never did wash off. Eventually, I painted the back of their door royal blue and added a few white stars to hide the words. While the words were present, though, they reminded me
of the day I had wasted demanding that my daughter's room look like a picture from a magazine.