I am pretty sure that whoever invented this P.O.S. storage container for kids' shit never met a child. At least they never met my children.
We had this piece of shit, past tense. And we still have the bins, which have come in handy over the years as pretend baby doll cribs, blocks for a fort, a staging ground for pending Lego projects, and/or more plastic junk to fill up the Closet Under the Stairs. (The C.U.T.S. is more terrifying than an R.O.U.S. (Rodent of Unusual Size) and will be the subject of a future blog post).
What this thing did not remotely do, however, was organize my kids' shit. Oh, I put shit IN there, alright. But something about the environmental psychology of this structure compels every child who sees these colorful bins to dump OUT their contents and use the bins for something other than storage.
When we first got this P.O.S. years ago, I was optimistic. The never-ending stream of junk that pours into our home with the velocity of Niagara Falls with every birthday, holiday, and visit from grandparents was going to be dammed with THIS additional piece of shit.
This neat, pert, tidy looking rack with its neat, tidy, colorful bins. It didn't take long, however, before I realized that only one percent of my kids' shit fit in here; that the bins toppled over easily even when not intentionally toppled; and that a child intentionally toppled the bins each time they saw this thing--not to be naughty, but simply because WHY would you want to use these bins for STORAGE when you could make a fucking FORT or BABY CRIB out of them? HUH?
That's what I mean when I say I don't think whoever invented this thing ever met a child. If they had, they would have gone right back to the drafting table with this complete, utter, total, and unmitigated piece of absolute shit on a stick/made of sticks.
I have no idea what happened to the rack part. Last I looked, it was an integral feature in our "Clampetts-Chic" front yard decor.