We didn’t have milk, applesauce, or little-bites muffins in the house, and apparently that is NOT ok.
My kids are very picky eaters… picky being the understatement of the century. They are annoying little creatures of habit that have come to expect their snack of choice at any given moment. I blame myself for this really, it is completely and undeniably my fault. I don’t want their little bellies to be hungry so I give in way more than I should. But lately, I feel like my primary role has become servant, instead of mom…. or are those terms just interchangeable during toddlerhood? Heaven forbid I have not been able to go to the store. Heaven forbid daddy forgot to bring home milk. And please god, tell us it isn’t true that the supermarket is no longer carrying party flavored mini-muffins. What is this world coming to? They can’t expect us to bake our own, can they?
I washed their hair and then had to brush it too. Gasp.
If you want to hear what torture sounds like, listen in on bath time at our house. Not only will you hear my own ugly cries, you will hear the sounds of my children screaming, crying, calling out for help, and pleading for mercy as I attempt to put organic, no-tear shampoo, into their very dirty hair. The horror of it all. I am shocked that our neighbors haven’t called DCF due to the commotion coming from our home.
I’m sorry, who was the one that decided it was a good idea to put a shovel full of sand onto their scalp and rub it around? You my friend, you, and only you. Now tilt your head back and be brave. This water is luke-warm and I have a towel ready if a drop comes even remotely close to your eyes. You can do this. You will survive. My sanity on the other hand is still up for debate.
I asked them to wear pants.
Our four year old likes to be in her underwear. Awkward. Yep. One minute she will be fully dressed and the next, no clothes to be found except her undies. So, when I tell her that she needs to wear clothes when we go outside, or to school, you would think that I have taken away all of her civil liberties. It’s social etiquette my dear. You don’t have to like it, but you do have to follow it, if you want to be a respected member of society. Let’s not forget our poor mailman who is still recovering from her leaping out the door at him in nothing but Frozen-themed panties and a super hero cape screaming “I’m Captain Underpants.” He’s nearly 70 and startles easily. I think he’s been throwing our packages from his moving vehicle ever since.
I asked them not to throw garbage on the floor.
This is not the dump. I hate finding pouches and discarded wrappers in every corner of our house. Please throw it away. Hell, ask me to throw it away, but please don’t toss it on the floor like that is a logical place for it to be. And, don’t lie about it. I was packing lunches the other morning and I heard an applesauce pouch hit the floor with some good force behind it. I walked over to see where it had landed and saw it a good 7 feet from where Riley was sitting on the couch. She looked up at me with those sweet brown eyes and said, “My applesauce fell mommy.” LIAR. Not cool, kid, not cool.
I said NO to their request for three curly straws.
My kids have a newfound fascination with getting water from our fridge. They like to use big plastic cups and fill them with ice, and water, and then drink them at the counter using big curly straws leftover from Riley’s birthday. Innocent enough, right? Right. Except they always find something to fight about.
If Bode has a blue straw, Riley wants a blue straw. If Bode has two straws, then Riley needs two straws. I get it. So on this particular day, I let them each pick two straws, of any colors they wanted, thinking this was finally going to be the time when both of my mini-beasts were going to be happy. Wrong. Bode picked two orange straws, and Riley picked a pink straw and a purple straw. After a minute, she decided that she needed to have an orange straw too, and I told her “No.”
This was the beginning of WWIII in my kitchen. I mean utter chaos ensued, water was tossed, straws were thrown, children’s bodies were flat–bellied on the tile, flailing with pure anger pulsing through their little veins. But, I refused to give in. No. Three straws was the last straw, the straw that would have broken this momma’s back (see what I did there) and I would not give in. Winning? Yes, yes it was. And, victory is oh so sweet.