Laugh · Live · Parent

Ultimate Enemies to Mom Sanity (part one)

Just a non-exhaustive list of stuff that threatens my sanity, sometimes.

Paper everywhere. I got my kids scissors. Ones with safe edges. Well, that was a lame idea. Because now they cut everything. And their friends come over and are like, “wait, what? you got scissors?” and then they cut everything, too. And then there are small shards of paper everywhere. Like, who needs to color a coloring book when you can cut it? Um. No one. I hid my kids’ scissors after WAY too long of daily picking up of scraps. But then I forgot where I hid them and where I hid them was apparently not a great place, because they found them again and now hide them from ME when they aren’t back to their old cherished ways-cutting up their coloring books and crayon wrappers.

Dinnertime.  Sweet people of the world, I know the practice of eating together will no doubt reap undeniable joys; you know, like children’s bodies growing and family closeness. But my little family is of the spicy variety, and dinnertime here is a screaming, sippy throwing, eating strike kind of occasion.  However, based on the wealth of mommy blogs devoted to eating dinner with your 2 second old, and what a precious time it is to make and serve and partake in the cow that was raised and butchered on the land and the vegetables harvested with strong mom hands, it occurred to me yesterday that not all families experience this kind of all out mutiny at the dinner table. Well. We do. Spicy families of the world, you aren’t alone. We’re over here throwing fits and being loud and not eating home cooked food (or frozen pizza, whatever) circa 5:37, too.  Dear God, let’s just get to the real precious things…cuddles and reading (followed by Netflix on the couch with Decaf and dark chocolate).

GLITTER. You’re sparkly, so….that’s cool.

But mainly, I hate your guts. You get all over my car, and my jeans and my table and then obviously my child’s hamburger that they didn’t want at the aforementioned precious dinnertime and then changed their minds the next, but not before they discarded its bunless self on the table. Glitter, let’s break up.

Play Dough. Play dough and I have a LOVE/HATE relationship. On the one hand, it can soothe and quiet any child…for hours. It’s not toxic when consumed…which lets be real…it will be. It inspires sought after childhood creativity  mixed with hands on learning that all good moms want.

But play dough is deceptive and cunning. With one violent preschool SQUISH, its vibrant colors can turn a nasty shade of bleh in moments. Similarly, somehow, even with the most strict parental observation, play dough has a way of finding carpet and taking up residence there. I imagine it’s like, “I’m tired of this table where I can’t ruin something. I need to be bad. I was born to be free. I need carpet.” With great craftiness, it then adheres itself to your child’s clothing, or shoes and before you know it. Boom, the one rug that you didn’t get for $20 at IKEA (against your better judgment) is now the home of bright blue play dough for all of eternity. Play dough, it’s only because I adore my kids, that you get to stay in my house. But the second you dry out just a little bit, I’m all “ah dang, kids-this is what happens when we don’t clean up. Sayonara, play dough, you evil genius.”

fullsizerenderThomas the Tank Engine. The show. Guys. Give me Thomas paraphenalia any day. It’s adorable. Girls love it. Boys love it. The train sets, the trains, the stuffed toys. Whatever. Even the weird YouTube vids of Thomas Trains crashing…cool.  But the show. Please somebody put that awful show out of its misery. Why is it so so so SOOOOOO boring? Why? I know there’s an impeach Cailloo mom club out there, but I will take that whiny bald wierdo kid any day over the slow death that is wathcing Thomas the Tank Engine. Let’s impeach Thomas the Tank Engine-the show…not the person, I mean, er the tank engine…the personified tank engine.

Dogs + diapers. You thought dogs and tampons were bad. Friend. Poop+Diapers+unsecured trashcans=Beagle Heaven. That’s all. No explanation needed here.

What about you? What makes you lose your sanity?


9 thoughts on “Ultimate Enemies to Mom Sanity (part one)

  1. Sand. Sand makes me lose my sanity. On the tile floor, in my car, affixed to the soles of my feet the moment I get out of the shower, on the bedsheets, in my underwear. Why won’t the sand stay on the beach, and why does it follow me?


  2. You had me at scissors!
    I am a friend of Katie’s and found your blog through her. It’s now one of my reads that I try to fit in the quiet morning moments before the chaos begins!


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