There's something in their brains that just short-circuits and tells them that life would be better if every toy they ever had were to be dumped out on the floor and trodden like the grapes of wrath, or something. This means their room always looks like it's been ransacked by chimpanzees who have been injected with PCP and locked in to die. And look, I'm not such the Donna Reed, so I just close the door when I walk by and try to think happy thoughts. But eventually, someone is going to come upstairs and find this chaos, and then I'll be on Oprah, with one tear on my cheek, explaining. (seriously, do you really think she's through with TV? come on)
Glory to God, my husband is in town. He came home during Hell Hour and helped me move their stuff out, and then today when they emptied every toy bin in the playroom, he made them clean it all up themselves. It took 4 hours (it could have taken 10 minutes) , but he went to the studio downstairs and mixed his CD and just came up on occasion, made vague threats and eventually they finished. I love having a co-parent.
I don't know what's going to happen. My hoarder tendencies make it very hard for me to get rid of their toys, so I have strongly suggested that the MOG spirit the toys away in the dark of night, so it will be done and I'll be off the hook. The only problem is he has like 4 jobs right now, and doing my job is not one of them. Sheesh. Maybe I could get SuperNanny...