Oh, how we wished it was just the Original Ten...turns out there's ten more. And probably even more than that. Like, we haven't even talked about money yet. Or boys. Or girls. Or the car...oh god. We're screwed.
So, the potty issues aren't so bad, right? Right? *sigh*
10. Potty Issue #3 (how many of these are there?)
9. Feed the Dog. He can't talk. But I'm pretty sure that pawing at his bowl and barking at you is the canine equivalent of me losing my schmidt. We have a barrel of dog food ten inches away from his bowl. Do him a solid and scoop some into his dish or he's gonna find your favorite stuffed animal and make it his new girlfriend. You think I kid...
Shoving stuff under you bed is not cleaning your room. What do you think I am? Headless? Do you think I don't notice the piles of clothes, socks, jackets and discarded paper slowly oozing out from under there? There's a good chance there is a monster living under your bed. Well, there was before you suffocated him with all that junk. Now there's just a decomposing monster under your bed. Haha. Now go to bed.
7. Take Off Your Shoes.
You go to Lydia's house, you take off your shoes. GrandMere's? Same thing? I have to remind you that you leave them on when you walk into church, even though you kick them off the moment you sit down in the pew. In fact, every home you step into, all three of you are instantly barefoot. Every home but yours. Here's the thing: our yard is beautiful, but it hides things, like dog poop, and dead things, and slugs and you all run around out there all day. And then you bring all that delicious potpurri of foulness into my house. And then you lay on the carpet watching movies. And someday I'll remind you that you're laying in smooshed slug juice. Or, you can just. take. off. your. mur. thur. fur. ker. stinkin'. shoes.
Please don't drink my drink. I know you drank my drink because there are crumbs floating in it. Oreo crumbs. And now the glass is sticky. And what was once a perfectly chilled glass of water is now this murky swamp of some mysterious liquid. That I have to chew. How about you stop bogarting my glass, and I'll make sure it's not full of iced spit. Deal?
5. Bed Time
Roughly translated, this means it's time for bed. It's not the time to remind me that you didn't study for your spelling test. Or, decide you want another fake shower. Or, freak out because your night time light saber is out in the yard. It also doens't mean I want to go toe-to-toe with Clarence Darrow about how we should account for daylight savings time. But you did get me to thinking...and for the past month I've been setting the clocks back two minutes every day. So you're actually going to bed a full hour earlier. So, thank you daylight savings, because you're the reason it's still light when they go to bed and you're who they blame for the fact that our TV just never seems to have the right show on when they expect it.
4. Scotch Tape is Not a Toy.
I know it's super cool and you can completely distort your face and give yourself a pig nose and then run around the house scaring the schmidt out of your little brother. And I may even concede that it's funny. But it also leaves me frantically trying to wrap a present for your friend's birthday party with a paste made of flour and water. Aside from that, stepping on yesterday's tape ball in the middle of the night in the dark that won't let go of my foot! GET OFF! GET OFF! kinda makes me want to throw a snake in your room.
Wet towels make me want set a fire. You bathe in the bathroom. You dry off in the bathroom. You even get dressed in the bathroom. Guess what? There's a whole section of that room that's designed specifically to hold your towel. It's like an aluminum Mom. Just waiting there to hold your stuff. Please. Give Aluminum Mom your wet, stinky-because-you-didn't-use-soap-you-just-stood-under-the-water swath of terry cloth. And, while your at it, please take your underwear to the laundry room. Because neither one of your moms wants to deal with that. That's why we have a Laundry Fairy.
2. Dirty Underwear.
Does not go back in the drawer. See above. I know you hate to fold laundry. I hate to fold laundry. Which is why I know you put totally clean clothes back in the dirty clothes bin. And yet, somehow your underwear is immune to this phenomenon. Which leaves me wondering how many times you re-wear it. Ugh. And, thank you son, because now I have to go give myself a lobotomy. And wash my hands. With turpentine.
Yes, you have to do your homework. No, I don't have to do your homework. Wanna know something cool? I already finished second grade. And fourth. And seventh, eighth, ninth and on and on and on. All the way to sixteenth grade. And Lydia did seventeenth and eighteenth grade. So, we're done. So, while fractions and diagramming sentences is super fun, I don't want to deprive you of this totally useful and necessary-to-the-rest-of-your-life exercise. Besides, I kinda don't want to admit I can't remember who the 14th president was. Some dude with a beard, OK? And, for the record, the 1970's isn't History. It's -- ummm - Early Contemporary Recollection. So, stop saying that or I'm gonna send you to your room. And maybe drop your toothbrush in the toilet.
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