The Great Toy Cleanup That Never Happens

There’s a very specific moment after playtime when I make the mistake of thinking, This could go smoothly.

The toys are everywhere. The floor is a minefield of tiny metal cars, super heroes under books, and mysterious objects that definitely weren’t toys five minutes ago. I calmly say, for the fifth time that day:

“Okay buddy, we’re done playing. We need space to walk. Let’s put the toys away.”

He nods. He understands. He even starts cleaning.

This is where the plan falls apart.

He picks up a toy… and freezes. His eyes light up.
“Oh! THIS one!”

Apparently, buried beneath the chaos is a toy he hasn’t seen in at least six whole minutes, which by toddler time qualifies as an archaeological discovery.

Cleanup immediately transforms into a brand-new adventure.

The car isn’t trash — it’s on a rescue mission.
The dinosaur isn’t going in the bin — it’s escaping lava.
The block wasn’t forgotten — it’s the final piece of a very important tower that absolutely cannot wait.

I remind him again:
“We’re cleaning up.”

He agrees. Enthusiastically. He picks up another toy… which triggers another memory, another storyline, another emotional attachment.

At this point, the floor somehow has more toys on it than before we started.

I try explaining logic.
“If we’re done, we put the toys away.”

I try explaining safety.
“We need space to walk.”

I try explaining future consequences.
“If we don’t clean up, we’ll trip.”

None of this matters. Because he is now deeply invested in a toy he absolutely loved five minutes ago and will completely forget exists once it’s in the bin.

Eventually, cleanup happens in slow motion. One toy at a time. With detours. With commentary. With several stops to reenact scenes that did not need to happen right now.

And honestly? As exhausting as it is, there’s something kind of amazing about it.

To him, the mess isn’t clutter — it’s possibility. Every toy on the floor is a story waiting to restart. Cleanup isn’t boring; it’s just interrupting creativity.

So we clean together. We redirect gently. We celebrate the two toys that did make it into the bin. And we accept that “tidying up” doesn’t mean what we think it means yet.

One day, the toys will go away without a full narrative arc.

But today?
Today, the floor is still lava — and the cleanup crew is easily distracted.