Dear fruit of my loins,
What the heck?!?! Why do I have to tell you both two hundred and sixteen times a day (and yes I did indeed count yesterday) to put your bottom on the couch? Not your head, not your feet, not your super jumping special toes, not your torso, not your stomach, not your knees - your bottom. And please, for the love of all things holy, can you explain why it's utterly impossible when your bottom is actually where it's supposed to be on the couch that you have to hurl yourselves backwards so hard that if my ample rear weren't sitting on the couch too that, in all likelihood, you'd flip it over backwards?!? And while we are on the subject of inappropriate couch behavior, why on earth would you think I'd be in favor of leap frogging it, flipping over the back, diving on it from the side, or using it as your personal trampoline? And might I just add, lying sideways on the seat and pushing against the center part with your toes is NOT how the furniture was designed to work. And if you shrug or roll your eyes at me ONE MORE TIME when I'm trying to calmly explain this to you for the two hundred and sixteenth time today, I am sure, absolutely positive, in fact, that a jury of my peers would understand why I left you here alone to check myself into either the nearest anger management course or mental institution.
You've known me your entire short lives. At no point have I EVER said, yes, please jump on/color on/wipe your nose on/wipe your hands on/attempt to destroy the couches. NEVER, I tell you! And now that we have leather-ish couches that clean up easier, you can't pull the cushions off, and are more comfortable to sit on, why have you instead turned up your destruction knobs to 11? What is up with that, my devils spawn? Huh? WHAT!?!
And since I'm on a rant, the giant hole in the middle of the toilet is for peeing into, not around. The lid on the back? It is NOT a splashguard. There are no plants on either side that need to be watered, so please stop trying.
Oh - and FYI - I'm not your maid. I. Am. Not. Your. Maid. Or your butler, or personal concierge, or entertainment director like Julie from The Love Boat. Pick up your crap, I mean toys, when you are finished playing with them. Shoving them under the couch or putting a blanket on top of them? That totally does not count. Go that extra two inches and put your dirty clothes IN the laundry basket. There are about six to choose from throughout the house and either you do it just to tick me off or your clothes are so averse to being washed, dried, folded, and put away by me that they are jumping out of the laundry basket. If the latter is the case, I find it ironic that they never make it farther than the floor right beside the basket. Did they jump to their death when they hit the nice, carpeted floor? Perhaps they were too tired from the extra weight of the mud, food, and bodily fluids they seem to be coated in.
Oh - and if you can get the lid OFF the juice, milk or water, then guess what??! You can put it back on, too. And when you spill milk all over the floor? I never took physics, but I'm willing to bet that 1 paper towel is not going to be enough to absorb the entire puddle. And FYI, waking through it DOES NOT count as cleaning it up. Just sayin.
That said, I love you both more than I can say and I'm so glad that I get to share this time with you. Now where in the Samuel L. Jackson is my secret chocolate stash?
1 comment:
Did you get that off the taped rants from our family vault? LOL. This too shall pass and then return again and again and again. (Chris)
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