Right now, at this very minute, my floor lacks a decisive path through the room.  This lack of path aspect continues all the way into the hallway, and I am fairly certain that it also goes through the rest of the house.  McCauly Caulkin wishes he could set up hazards of this calibur.  Now that it is cooler, the stairs to the playroom/school room/ library no longer contain both a skate board and a set of rollar skates, I think, but I make no promises. 

My house did not look like this all day.  It didn't even look like this an hour ago.  Part of the strategic implentation of the secret attack plan by the squadron is rotation and randomization.  Just when you think you can find a way safely across - yowzers - dinosaur spike to the bottom of the foot. Go to catch yourself and whoosh you slide on a discarded drawing.  Desperate flailing as you go down just rewards you with something precariuosly balanced, and full, pouring down in a storm upon you.  There you sit, wet, stuck - possibly even permanently affixed on the floor, with an impaled foot, twisted ankle, and thrown out hip - completely at the mercy of the small yet mighty forces that begin to surround you.  It is at this point that serious concern begins to form in your mind.  It is also at this point that Starlet will insist she has the medical knowledge needed to examine you and make an accurate prognosses, as well as provide treatment.  Songbird will start laughing at you hysterically, but the sound of her laugh is so awesome that it makes you laugh too.  Smash, though hesitant initially from the cacophony, will flash his break a thousand hearts smile, and give you a drooly kiss on the lips.  You will begin to feel at peace, and the sheer joy from being with the children will fill your heart.  Stomp it out.  This is part of their plan.  Notice how Sunshine and Snickers are missing?  That is because they are together in the bedroom war room playing planning the next attack.

Others may question the mess, thinking that I need to cut down on the toys, and organize, organize, organize.  This is not the right answer.  I routinely get rid of toys, only to buy them again a year later when I realize how much  I the kids missed playing with them.  Sterilite sends me thank you notes each year for how many containers I buy.  I even label them.  What happens is that though I have a squadron, I am not a master sargent, captain, general, or anything else that denotes authority just in the name.  I am easily convinced to read a storey, or two, or more, to a little cuddly cutie pie; or play a game with the teen and tween, instead of enforcing the chore expectation.

Besides, at least one room in the house is clean, close to company clean, several times through the day.  There is just no evidence of it, and no eye witnesses.