I wasn't kidding

when I said the Children break my stuff. Note the adorably naked toddler as he barbarically gives my Dyson the old 1-2 knockout.


Unsuspecting little thing didn’t stand a chance against his chubby-powered feet. Or as I like to call them at 3:00 am as they stab my kidneys – his clubs of death. Honestly. What’s going through his head as he boorishly drags the vacuum from the closet and begins dismantling it as unsympathetically as possible? This:

I’m quite sure that’s exactly it.

We keep telling ourselves we’ll have nice things when they’re grown and out on their own adventures. Then of course my mother reminds me that those will be the times when I most cherish their childish ways of destruction. Like the time I carved my initials into my parents’ new hutch. Apparently she just loves that work of art now.

I know I know. But it would be luxurious to own a kitchen table that didn’t show obvious signs of three children eating and drawing on it every day.

(150th post. w00t!)