Jack’s and Henry’s room is painted a color called “crocodile tears.”

Which is most appropriate, as that’s exactly what I cried upon entering it yesterday.

As I discuss in Rule 12 of my forthcoming book, You Cannot Be Serious: and 32 Other Rules that Sustain a (Mostly) Balanced Mom, one of my life’s pathways to sanity is navigated by accepting that the kids’ bedrooms and bathrooms will never be pristine. Ever. In fact, they may even be, at times, hazardous to their health. Which is one reason why I thank goodness that they are upstairs and we are down and I don’t have to look at (or smell) it too often.

But because I’m not completely immune to wildly odiferous spaces, and because I realize that, until they move out anyway, I’m ultimately responsible for ensuring that alternate life forms are not invited to fester and grow in corners of their rooms, I take a day every once in a blue moon to don rubber gloves and protective eyewear and spruce things up.

The first thing I did was dumb dumb dumb. I looked behind Henry’s headboard. Remember what I found the last time I did this? It was 68 times worse this time. There it was, the much-anticipated stash of trash that surely had surpassed biohazardous levels and was screaming, “Come to me!” to every dime-sized, six-legged creature. It was in this moment that I determined that it was time for more than the twice-yearly deep clean.

When I was younger, I rearranged my room at least twice a year. It added new Feng to old Shui. When I really needed a change in energy, my sister and I would swap rooms altogether.

And so, after five hours, Jack’s and Henry’s room had become Henry’s and George’s room. Jack and Grace spent two hours post-move meticulously organizing their now-shared bathroom, spraying Febreeze everywhere, and discussing how to best display their respective rock and book collections.

Meanwhile, George and Henry played Living on a Prayer far too many times on Rock Band, coming upstairs only intermittently to offer wisdom such as, “I don’t like where the Star Wars poster has been placed,” and “It smells weird in here.”

Yes, children, this is what clean smells like.

Last night, Jack (who never left my side during the clean-turned-move, even helping me to get the top bunk separated from the bottom bunk) came to me and said, “This was really fun, Mom. It feels like we moved to a whole new house. Maybe next time you’ll move Henry and George to your room and you and Papa will sleep in their room.”

No, sir. Not gonna happen.

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What’s your best piece of organizational advice for kids’ rooms? Do share. I beg of you.