episode 2: if this doesn't make you laugh--you're made of stone, honey!

Aubrey is one of my favorite bloggers ever. She ALWAYS makes me laugh in her "I'm on the verge of losing it" kinda way. Thanks so much for making me laugh Aubrey--and one day when you get your childless, dream house, I promise to come cry with you because you'll want all those destructrive little bodies to come back and give it a good messing-up :)

I never thought I’d ever get to guest post for anyone, so I’m trying really hard to play it cool.

And I tried to muster some wits, but I’m afraid most of them abandoned ship a long time ago. Anyway, thanks for the opportunity Jennifer!

I have three and a half kids. They’re nuts. They get it from their father. Even the unborn one is constantly moving 90 miles an hour—more frequently than his siblings ever did. Chaos is constantly erupting. I’m pretty sure their main goal in life is send me to the loony bin so they don’t have to change my diapers when I’m old. Little do they know it is just that revenge that keeps me barely on this side of sanity.

However, they know my weak spot. It’s the house. They’re bent on destroying the house. Sometimes it’s little trickles and some days, it’s massive destruction where I am sure they’re recruiting toys and books from their friends, because no way have we acquired that much stuff.

Then, of course, there are the days they decide that non-toy entities are all of sudden free game. Those are my favorite.

Like eggs.
And a full pitcher of grape juice.
Look, the culprit is thirsty.


And sticking utensils in empty milk jugs at dinnertime when Mom's not looking.
I guess we have too many forks.

And then. there's the baby powder artwork that probably gave us all asthma, including the vacuum.



The entire bottle of soy sauce in the carpet equated the removal of the hall carpet. (Just so you know, for future reference, because I know I'm not alone in this parenting game, it actually didn’t soak through to the pad and through to the floor underneath like I was sure it was.) That one was compliments of private enemy #1, a.k.a. Mr. Destructo.


And would someone please remind me not to buy the ultra-mega-huge rolls of Charmin? Once they get unrolled by the 2-year-old sidekick, it’s impossible to re-roll them because they just. don’t. fit. Most of the time, we’re pulling scraps out of a basket.

Sometimes they don’t stick to making messes, but do things like turn the fridge to it’s coldest setting so the carrots freeze (but our drinks were nice and frosty), or flip the switch in the furnace room so we think the only-three-years-old air conditioner is broken on the hottest weekend in July (did I mention I'm carrying extra, moving, weight and always overheated?!).

Don’t get me started on the newish couch. I honestly thought I wouldn’t have to wash the slipcovers that much.

I’ve had to ration myself to once a month, or to leaky diaper and red Crystal Light spill emergencies. And it’s never just one or two cushions, oh no—thanks to the scientific phenomenon called splattering, it’s always the whole entire thing. Did I mention my children are very thorough?

One thing I would like to know is how ‘Let’s pick up,’ is interpreted as, ‘Hurry and get out more and spread it farther!’

I believe I lose more battles than I win, but their father, the Sergeant General who believes in corporal punishment—or at least prolonged corner cell jail time—thinks we’ll win the war yet. Every day I lament that our house will never be clean again. I’m glad he’s optimistic at least. But then, they listen to him.

One day this dream may come true:

Meanwhile, this is my reality. Though I probably wouldn't trade it for anything.