I have a confession to make:
My children are absolutely adorable and I love them like crazy, but sometimes I would like to go mail them to Quebec. Or at least Wisconsin. Just for a few hours. I understand the post office won’t allow us to mail fireworks or bleach (I cannot understand how anyone would need bleach mailed to them. How does that situation ever occur?) but maybe… toddlers? Bubble wrap? Proper postage?
(PLEASE I AM KIDDING REALLY I WOULD NEVER.)
Case in point: (please add the “doink doink” from Law in Order here. Whenever anyone says, “Case in point” it’s kind of required)
My children feel it is their toddlered obligation to stand on things. Namely, things that were never meant, in any basic capacity, to be stood upon.
ITEMS MY BOYS LIKE TO STAND UPON:
or, if you wish to be grammatically correct but hopelessly bungled:
ITEMS MY BOYS LIKE ON WHICH TO STAND:
(And yes, you better believe I’m devoting a whole blog post to this. This is important, people.)
Candyland (box and all assorted items inside)
Hi Ho Cherryio (lid only – I don’t know why)
any of our other mangled game boxes that now are held together with duct tape and grim resentment
my purses, especially if my glassses are in them
glasses. Like drinking glasses. Why? WHY?
the firm foundation of our Lord Jesus Christ (now, true, yes, but I just threw that one in there to see if you were paying attention)
Legos! (karma AND comic relief at the same time)
laundry, folded and waiting to be placed in the laundry basket
unfolded, strewn laundry accompanied by yelling from Momsie
my feet. MY FEET. Almost every day, my feet get smooshed by toddler feet.
Why, oh toddlers? I wail and beg of you, with my best Nancy Kerrigan:
WHYYYYY MUST YOU SMOOOSHE MY FEEEEET?
And I KNOW, in the grand spectrum of things, that my pain level from a daily smoosh from fat little toddler feet is not epic or anything. It’s not kidney-stone, baby birthing, appendicitis, tax season kind of pain.
It’s just paper cut pain. Or, listening to Caillou’s voice pain.
But, I am taking a stand. (SEE THAT? SEE WHAT I DID THERE? I KNOW, RIGHT? YOU’RE WELCOME.)
No more, fat-footed toddler, shall you smoosh on me. I know it’s some sort of inherent need, wee one, to hoist yourself up those one and a half inches to, you know, get a better vantage point of the world, but CUT IT OUT.
And no longer will I respond with a gentle, “Could you please not stand there? Those are my feet. They aren’t for standing on. They’re for… um standing. You get the idea sweetie. MOVE IT.”
I will, instead, spray you with the water bottle that is labelled “BAD CAT.” Hopefully, this will cause you to skitter off with one backward glance and a flared tail. If you start using the litter box? All the better. LESS MESS.
*the lawyer has interjected here to inform you that no toddlers were actually sprayed with our BAD CAT bottle.
** But I have to add that parenting along with the BAD CAT bottle actually sounds kind of tempting.
And, dear readers, I leave you with this. Cats and the theme from Law in Order. Never gets old, I tell you.