I have moved with children three times.
I hate packing. I hate unpacking.
Every unpack, everything changes.
Kids are more mobile. Taller. Sneakier.
Cabinets are latched.
Breakables go up higher.
Things are hidden a little bit better. A little bit smarter.
The other day, after we carried the kids in, asleep, from a stellar day of projectile vomiting Panera in the back seat of my car and plopped them down on my bed, we found ourselves… alone.
It’s so quiet.
Should we sleep?
Are you insane?
Ok fine, you go upstairs, I’ll go grab some fun stuff.
It was totally fun until…
*pad* *pad* *pad*
Are you playing with my cars in my room without me?
I’m just cleaning them, they’re super…dirty.
Can I have juice?
Totally, one sec, let me find my, um, car duster cleaner thing.
Close call, right?
I mean, I don’t have any catching my parents having sex stories, and I’d kinda like to allow my kids that same courtesy.
I hear it’s traumatic.
Later that day, after Andy had gone in to work, and the boys were off playing together, which is totally the best parenting milestone ever, because it means you can do things like think rationally and drink and entire glass of something without surrendering it to backwash, my bat ears alerted me to trouble brewing on the floor above my head, so I cautiously continued reading Gigi the Legal Woes section of People until the token scream or scuffle that would require my smooth timeout or OMG I WILL THROW ALLLL THIS SHIT AWAY SO HELP ME GOD SOMEBODY GET ME A GARBAGE BAG mommy skills.
What is the deal guys, do I have to give your cars away to kids in third world countries, because I will?
Wyatt won’t share the shaker sword and he keeps hitting my dump-dozer (dump truck-bulldozer hybrid, very rare and magical, much like centaurs) with it.
What shaker swor-
NOT SHAKER SWORD. VIBRATOR. NOT. SWORD. VIBRATOR.
Parenting tip #589, do not make objects sound exciting or dangerous or off limits, it only ups the level of child desire.
So, I was all cool and like, Oh, here, yeah, lemme see that, yeahhh, that is daddy’s. For his back. He hurt his back. Lifting that heavy car thing, you know, it’s not important, but yeah, this is for that. It helps, you know, fix that back hurt…issue. And Wyatt was all, but I love it, and I was like, but it’s got, like, medicine all over it, let’s see your hands, yep yep, we should wash them, because that big people strength, and I would hate for you to get sick or need, like, 7-9 shots from the doctor.
But, Wyatt, man. He’s like a fox, that kid doesn’t miss a beat, and he’s all, well, what if I hold the end with the buttons, can I help daddy shake it on his back? And, I’m all, ohhhh yeah, maybe, I mean, I would have to call the doctor, like, to check if that’s safe or whatever, but I will totally do that right after, um, I get done looking at toys to buy online, didya, maybe, um, wanna help me finish that first, orrrr…
That was traumatic. For pretty much everyone.
$30 at ToysRUs.com and several hand washings later, we moved on.
No more public outcry for the doctor prescribed shakey sword.
I was making dinner, the boys were running around with Gigi, Andy was supposed to be home 45 minutes ago.
And, dude, he needed to hurry, because you know those days when you feel like, HOLY CRAP I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I AM DOING!? This was one of those days. Obviously.
And then this happened.
I walk into my room expecting to see, I don’t know, my bedding pulled apart, or my lotion squirted into the carpet, or something equally as annoying and time consuming, but it was none of those things.
It was three kids. Sitting on my floor. With an open bag of vibrators. And oils. And rings of the, ugh, I don’t know, cock like nature, WHO THE HELL NAMES THIS STUFF?
Mama, look at allll these back shakers we found!
And now….everyone’s had their hands washed and I’m googling gun safes until daddy gets home.