We are in a place in our lives where every bit of our existence has been infiltrated/permeated/blessed {insert your verb of choice} by our children. There is no stone left unturned when it comes to what my children count as theirs in our house. I can recall a conversation with one of my besties wherein I was bemoaning the fact that the children leave their toys every which where and her response to me was, “tell them where to put their things and they will put them there.”
Ya. I’d say that isn’t working here. With the kids hanging out at the house most of the day, I find that as soon as one area is cleaned, the next is undone. And just as quickly as I think I’ve picked up every last leave-behind, I find another. But I think I’ve found the answer. At least for me.
Any time I see something out of place. Unexpected. Darn near bizarre. I just say the following words out loud: I HAVE KIDS.
Why is the basting brush in my purse? I have kids.
Why are the curtains twirled in a circle and tied up in a bow? I have kids.
Why is there a hot wheels car in my sheets? I have kids.
I was explaining to another mama yesterday that, while I am the closest to Type A that exists in our house, I am really more of a Type C. And the hubs, I’d put him at an F. And the children… well… they are products of their environment, I suppose. So I allow a fair amount of wandering. And I heavily encourage {ahem.} independent play. And there is a bit of dishevelment in our abode.
But still. I have to laugh. A lot. Because if I went off the deep end every time I found something a little peculiar, well, I’d be drowning. And mama’s gotta keep swimming.
Really, I just never know what evidence I might find around the next corner. And I’ve learned to stop questioning motives. And only to answer: I have kids.
Coloring project on the back of the toilet…
because I have kids.
Clothes. Clothes. Everywhere.
A milk sippy next to the toilet…
A foam sword in the sink…
And why are there remnants of a waffle in the front room?
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