Let's take a look at that ol' list...

So last week I talked about my need to get more organized with lists. This week's big project from that master list? I moved all the toys furniture in the boys' room and vacuumed those corners that don't get love cleaned ever on a regular basis.

The problem with projects like this? They make my boys instantly interested in whatever it is that I'm doing.

It didn't matter that I put Cars in the DVD player. Usually that's my ticket to at least eight minutes of freedom. Sippy cups full of chocolate milk? Should have bought me another three.

So I started my cleaning adventure (cuz that's when it ended up being) by picking up all the toys and putting them away. Cue Nick in the doorway.

"Mom. William pinched me."

"So go sit on the other couch."

"But he needs a time out."

"Honey, he's 16 months old. He's too little for time outs. If you move to the other couch and he goes over there to pinch you again, then let me know."

Toys picked up. I slide Nick's bed away from the wall. Cue crying.

I turn around and walk the 12 feet into the living room.

"What's going on?"

"He pinched me again and I pushed him."

"Did you sit on the other couch like I told you to?"

"No."

"Then go take a time out for hurting your brother and not listening to Mama."

I soothe Will and give him a book. This gives me another three minutes -- just enough time to pick up the 14 stray socks, 5 matchbox cars, 3 Lego's and various balls and broken toys that were hiding under the bed -- and turn on the vacuum cleaner, only to hear: "MOM!"

I turn it off. "WHAT?!?"

"Can I come out of time out now?"

"Yes. Now go sit over there," pointing to couch away from where Will is sitting, pulling all of the wipes out of the box, "and leave your brother alone."

Kids restored to original starting positions. Wipes put back into container. I go back and vacuum a strip the size of my son's toddler bed, then turn the vacuum off again. Hey - their room is small...there's only so much you can do before you have to move furniture again.

I push Nick's bed back to where it was and start to put clean sheets on it when I realize its a bit too quiet. I slowly turn around. No kids to be seen.

Now, the gate is up, restricting them to the living room only. What the heck?!?

"Nick? Will?" I hear giggling. They're sitting in their closet, which is the second place I look, knowing they've hidden there before. They must have sneaked past me in the 14.5 seconds I was vacuuming. Fine. Whatever floats your boat, children. Play in the closet, I don't care.

So I put sheets on the bed, vacuum the rest of the room and begin to pull Will's crib away from the wall. I hear crying from within the closet. Turns out they were fighting over who's turn it is to sit in the chair that's (for some reason or another) in the closet. Instead of explaining to my three-year-old that you can't reason with a toddler, I quickly realize what an exercise in futility that would be, and just tell them to go back to their movie.

Crib moved, totes that reside under the crib stacked on other son's bed, cue crying.

"MOM!"

"Oh my God, WHAT?"

I see that Will is red in the face he's crying so hard. He's been hurt.

"What did you do?!?"

Nick looks at the floor, knowing he's in trouble. "I jumped on him."

"YOU WHAT?!? WHERE?" I immediately pick him up and move his arms and legs and look for bumps. I begin to imagine internal bleeding. What is it you're supposed to do again? Don't let them go to sleep? Make them throw up? Then I have a moment of clarity, realizing that there is only a 5 lb. difference between my boys. The little ruffian can probably hold his own pretty well.

I ask Nick again, who's murmured an answer to my question in a language FAR other than English. "Where did you land on him?"

He waves his little hand in a big flourish. "I land on his whole body."

Oh.My.God. Don't laugh. Whatever you do, send that child away before he sees you fighting that smile.

"Go take a time out in your bed." He walks away - Will's tears have already begun to subside by this point, so I know it isn't as major as it originally seemed. I start to shake my head, realizing how dumb I was to try and clean something major while I was outnumbered.

I put Will down to go pick up my "cleaning" in the boys' room - I'll work on it another day - and laugh out loud.

There is my lovely three-year-old, lying in his bed, just like I told him to.

Squeezed into a 3" wide space, next to all the totes I'd stacked so I could vacuum.