There’s something about children that just makes them want to destroy everything. Sometimes it’s my favorite shirt. Or the food they’re supposed to be eating. Or taking my computer and closing off my favorite pinterest recipes by banging on the keys until it pops up the warning letter. Or sometimes, by just being a human tornado and literally running around like a windmill, with arms out, destroying everything in their path.
There’s Little S. Who does not understand the concept of a bib. Or plates.
And he’s like this with every food I give him. It could be Cheerios and crackers, the most dry, bland foods ever and he’d somehow find a way to make himself a sticky mess. I’m also impressed with his ability to turn ANYTHING into a drum. Table? Drum. Window? Drum? My face? Drum.
WHY! WHY, SON?! I mean, I’ve never licked a DVD, so I’m not sure if it tastes good, but I would assume it doesn’t. What is with children’s automatic assumption to put things in their mouths? I’m REALLY glad we grow out of that. Like, could you imagine if that was normal as an adult? Everything you see that you haven’t experienced before you just stick it in your mouth? “Hmmm. That’d an odd looking piece of electric wiring, I should stick it in my mouth.” I swear my 2 year old is constantly trying to kill himself. Or cause me to have a heart attack.
Then I realized, it’s not just my children. It’s my husband too.
This is his nightstand after a week:
Gross, right? Believe it or not, we actually DO have trashcans in our house. But apparently Big S has yet to find them. The worst part is, once a week I’ll clean off his dresser and like, 3/4s of his cups/beers are FULL. He opens them takes a sip and falls asleep. My husband is THAT guy who lays down and is like “Oh yeah, sure, sure, I’ll rub your feet. I’m just going to rest my eyes and…” and is snoring like a fool in 3 seconds.
Oh, Rae. Sweet, sweet, tiny Rae… There’s something about putting her in the most adorable clothes that makes her poop her pants almost immediately. It’s like she can’t take the pressure of everyone looking at her or something and just HAS to blow out her diaper and ruin her outfit.
Then there is this:
The minute I sit down to nurse Rae a little switch is turned on in Little S’s head. He’s like “HAHA! The boob is out, making mom powerless to my terror!” and he will literally run laps around our house like a crazy person. And he somehow manages to find a pen. I can’t even find a pen in this house, I have no clue how he does it. He’s like a moth to a flame, he WILL find whatever he’s not supposed to have. And he WILL be sure to ruin anything he gets his hands on.
Plus, he is just A BOY.
Little S is a blur of bloody noses, scrapped knees and ripped clothes. He already managed to chip his tooth. There’s something about Little S that makes me think he’s maybe a tad bit obsessed with watching me freak out. Like when he attempted to jump into a pool head first. Or when he picked up a 5 pound weight and almost dropped it directly on his foot. Or the everyday occurance of shoving his entire fist down his throat when we’re in the car, making it sound like he’s choking. Yeah, that’s all so incredibly wonderful.
Children are fantastic. But they are messy.
I’m always amazed when I see well dressed moms without a stain on them. Do you never touch your children or something? Do they not live with you? Because I’ve never been able to stand within 3 feet of my kids without somehow getting some sort of mixture of snot/chalk//bubble solution/spit up/drool/strawberry/cracker on me.
It’s a gift, I guess.