As I sit here typing I am surrounded by chaos, trying to find the elusive "inner peace" that Kung Fu Panda was talking about. The sunlight is streaming in through my filthy windows, reflecting the colours of the crayon scribbles Frack left there. And on the windowsill. The bookcase beside the windowsill. The walls. The doorframe. The door. The hallway. The painting hanging in the hallway. The small folding table that now serves as our coffee table because our coffee table disintegrated last week after the boys had used it as a trampoline. The couch. The television set. Several toys. A couple of my books. A dinner plate. My shoe. Just a colourful trail of happy little accidents.
My living room set stinks. When I say it stinks I mean that quite literally. Every time Frack jumps on it gentle but nauseating bouquets are released; a combination of stale cheerios, old dairy and feet. I promise myself that this is the summer I will rent one of those shampooer thingies from the grocery store and clean it. And every time I have that thought Frack promptly dumps yogurt on it. Or kool aid. Also ketchup, mustard, pudding, soup, chocolate milk, spaghetti sauce, jello, and ice cream. He is truly a budding Jackson Pollock and it would be wrong of me to stifle his creativity just because I don't want to get up from my couch with a sticky ass. Besides, I have enough on my plate just trying to get him to kick his chronic habit of using the couch as his dinner napkin.
It's Daddy I really feel sorry for. His wallet has taken a serious beating from these kids. Even worse they got at his electronics. As a baby, Frick systematically destroyed all CDs. He decimated entire music collections in the matter of minutes. Over the years he has lost, eaten, coloured on, urinated on, warped, smashed, scratched, melted, thrown away, thrown as ninja stars, buried and baked (yes, baked) any number of music CDs, DVDs, and some very expensive computer programs. There was the battery recharger he melted by putting regular disposable batteries in it. The rechargeable batteries he flushed down the toilet. The USB keys he flushed down the toilet. The portable phone he flushed down the toilet. The portable phone he left out in the rain. The portable phone he lost down our air ducts. The portable phone he left in the long grass which subsequently got mowed by the lawnmower. The lawnmower.
Which brings me to the larger appliances. At this moment in time I am unable to do laundry because my brand new washing machine is in pieces in the basement. Daddy is going through the difficult task of removing all the Lego pieces, Bakugan (I'm not even really sure what that is but the kids are nuts for it), and granola bar wrappers that have jammed up the works. Yes, I still have not learned the trick of going through all the pockets like TV moms do. Well guess what? TV moms don't have kids whose dirty laundry requires a full Hazmat suit just to cram into the machine, so get off my back. And then there was the time Frick blew up our brand new, state of the art, very large screened TV that we got as a housewarming gift from my family. This act might have been unforgivable had he not almost killed himself in the process. We felt the PTSD he suffered was punishment enough.
I could go on. I could talk about our scratched and dented hardwood floors that we restored ourselves, or the broken toilet. I could tell you of the neighbour's fence that now just leans against a wall because of the kids climbing all over it. The holes and stab wounds in the bedroom walls. The gaping, basketball sized hole in the screen door. Missing doorknobs and broken drawers. My sanity. The handmade, pottery serving dish I got from my brother in-law, or the set of bowls I got from my dead great-grandmother. Antique Christmas decorations. Family heirlooms. The ceiling fan. The mailbox. The lamp post in the front yard....
My living room set stinks. When I say it stinks I mean that quite literally. Every time Frack jumps on it gentle but nauseating bouquets are released; a combination of stale cheerios, old dairy and feet. I promise myself that this is the summer I will rent one of those shampooer thingies from the grocery store and clean it. And every time I have that thought Frack promptly dumps yogurt on it. Or kool aid. Also ketchup, mustard, pudding, soup, chocolate milk, spaghetti sauce, jello, and ice cream. He is truly a budding Jackson Pollock and it would be wrong of me to stifle his creativity just because I don't want to get up from my couch with a sticky ass. Besides, I have enough on my plate just trying to get him to kick his chronic habit of using the couch as his dinner napkin.
It's Daddy I really feel sorry for. His wallet has taken a serious beating from these kids. Even worse they got at his electronics. As a baby, Frick systematically destroyed all CDs. He decimated entire music collections in the matter of minutes. Over the years he has lost, eaten, coloured on, urinated on, warped, smashed, scratched, melted, thrown away, thrown as ninja stars, buried and baked (yes, baked) any number of music CDs, DVDs, and some very expensive computer programs. There was the battery recharger he melted by putting regular disposable batteries in it. The rechargeable batteries he flushed down the toilet. The USB keys he flushed down the toilet. The portable phone he flushed down the toilet. The portable phone he left out in the rain. The portable phone he lost down our air ducts. The portable phone he left in the long grass which subsequently got mowed by the lawnmower. The lawnmower.
Which brings me to the larger appliances. At this moment in time I am unable to do laundry because my brand new washing machine is in pieces in the basement. Daddy is going through the difficult task of removing all the Lego pieces, Bakugan (I'm not even really sure what that is but the kids are nuts for it), and granola bar wrappers that have jammed up the works. Yes, I still have not learned the trick of going through all the pockets like TV moms do. Well guess what? TV moms don't have kids whose dirty laundry requires a full Hazmat suit just to cram into the machine, so get off my back. And then there was the time Frick blew up our brand new, state of the art, very large screened TV that we got as a housewarming gift from my family. This act might have been unforgivable had he not almost killed himself in the process. We felt the PTSD he suffered was punishment enough.
I could go on. I could talk about our scratched and dented hardwood floors that we restored ourselves, or the broken toilet. I could tell you of the neighbour's fence that now just leans against a wall because of the kids climbing all over it. The holes and stab wounds in the bedroom walls. The gaping, basketball sized hole in the screen door. Missing doorknobs and broken drawers. My sanity. The handmade, pottery serving dish I got from my brother in-law, or the set of bowls I got from my dead great-grandmother. Antique Christmas decorations. Family heirlooms. The ceiling fan. The mailbox. The lamp post in the front yard....
If I ever entertain the idea of having another kid, I'll reread this. I'm terrified of two boys!
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