I love 3M's Post-It Notes, and keep a stack of colorful pads always near at hand. They're good for flagging edits on a manuscript, for communicating with others in my home when we're busy living separately during the day, or for jotting down phone numbers, grocery lists, and sudden bursts of inspiration for story-writing. But the best use I ever found for them was when my son was in elementary school. I discovered they were great parenting tools.
It was driving me crazy that the sink in the bathroom always looked atrocious every time I walked in there. It looked great every time I stepped out of the washroom, but rarely did it look so pristine on entering. There was usually some crusty feeling stuff on the taps and not only did the grunge drive me crazy, but having to remind my son about it time and time again, nearly drove me insane. I'd wash the crust off, rewash my hands, then turn to dry my hands on a towel, only to find the towel marred with whatever my son had supposedly washed off his hands earlier.
It was frustrating and annoying. No matter how many times I told him to clean the taps off and use towels for drying his hands, not for wiping dirt on them, the bathroom was still like that several times a day. I told him he'd lose a day on the computer every time I found it like that. It didn't work. He lost the computer for a week and nothing changed, and even when he was off the computer, it was still like that. He was getting used to hearing his name pronounced in a way only an irate mother can pronounce her child's name (we're quite skilled at drawing out the syllables for effectiveness).
Or he'd be playing online or off, and as soon as he heard the tone of his name in that way, he'd say, "Oh, sorry, sorry," rush to take care of it and get back to playing with his toys, or hop back on the computer chair and tap away at the keyboard.
Since the computer was his favorite "toy," I set up a schedule of times he was allowed to be on it, and would take away privileges a half hour at a time. That didn't work. He was fine with losing his comp time because he'd simply go draw pictures or play with his toys. Still the grungy bathroom problem continued.
I was getting sick and tired of being upset with him over such a trivial thing, yet I hated that it seemed my hands got messier trying to clean them, than they had been before I started!
Finally, I grabbed a brightly colored Post-It, and wrote on it, "Ha Ha! I am dirt and grime and I don't want you to play on the computer! I play dirty! Ha ha ha ha!" I added a little picture of a grime spot with a mean smile. I stuck that one on the mirror in front of the tap. I took another Post-It of a different color and wrote "I am NOT a back-up washcloth! I'm a towel. Please use me to dry clean hands. Don't clean them on me! I drew a little crying towel.
It was working! No more grime, no more leftovers on the towel . . . but the other towel was then being used for cleaning. I stuck up another note and wrote "I'm a towel too! Please no dirt and grime!" I drew a trembling towel with a grime monster about to devour him.
After that day, the bathroom was always nice and clean and the towels lasted on the rack more than half a day, and I didn't have to say a word.
Neither of us mentioned the notes until about a week later when I put a little reminder note up for myself in the kitchen (which I do frequently) and he said, "You're sure into notes these days huh? Like in the bathroom?"
"Yes," I replied. "I saw those, too. But I'm not a towel, and I'm not dirt and grime, so please don't think they're from me." He laughed, gave me a hug and said "You're such a cool mom." I took the compliment for the rare wonder it was, and we never brought the notes up again.
For a few years more, the Post-Its Patrol kept our home in tip-top shape: over a coat rack, "Please may I hold your coat for you?"; above the laundry hamper, "I'm not full yet, more clothes please!" The notes were all over the house until my son was able to remember certain chores and responsibilities without reminders. Even his cousins and friends abided by the Post-It Patrol's rules. Best of all, I didn't have to nag my son for those things to get done.
Now that my son is a teenager, the notes are gone and the walls around here are a lot less colorful, but it's a fair trade for raising my son in a home where yelling is rare, arguments are discussed in respectful tones and chores are actually done. I don't know if I could have managed it without a little help from my Post-Its.
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