Why Everything In My House Is Destroyed

It was a Come to Jesus weekend in the House of Picket.

And while prayer may (or may not) have been involved, I invoke the saying because it sounds much sweeter than admitting that the Kid and me shouted and chest-thumped our way through the last coupla days -- a rainy bunch of days; a deluge, in fact -- over the kids' (in the Kid's words) "lack of respect for our home" and their trashing-of-it ways. A meeting commenced early Sunday night. A huddle was had. A speech was made.

Good times.

When B first tagged an armoire with her toddler scribble, we reacted with typical dismay horror pride: what an artist we have, such a genius, and also what wonderful, creative parents we are, we who supplied the crayons and (apparently) do not hover. That's the excellent domain of newbie parents: to consider everything the offspring does with nothing but stupified adoration. (Dear Newbie Parents: it fades.)

Now, the bookcases in what was once the office and is now the playroom are detailed with either brown marker or brownie mix -- I'm not sure. Now, the cabinets in the kitchen (a mere four years old) are dented and gouged from someone's good idea to ride the scooter inside. (OK: it was me. But it's that cool scooter, the Powerwing, which I could steer but NO ONE ELSE COULD.) Now, the couches are not so much comfy spots to sit in but instead devastated lumps, former pommel horses or uneven bars or ships or forts or platters for Play Doh.

(I do not have a room in my house where kids aren't allowed. I do have rules about food and where it should be eaten, but I bend those rules from time to time, if it serves me -- like this week, while The Kid's gone and we have no school for two days. I have an accessible cabinet filled with nothing but paper and art supplies and I do not lock it. I like kids to get messy; I believe in the goodness of messy.)

But for the love of all that has been paid for and more importantly earned, is it too much to ask of that no one vaults over the freakin' couch? Because vaulting over the couch leads to landing on the antique chest/coffee table that though not valuable has meaning? And means that the couch will become increasingly unstable and unhinged and unsuitable? So is leaving it alone, just sitting your ass onto it -- IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK, SHORT DRUNK PEOPLE?

So the speech was delivered by The Kid. He meant it. He was serious. He wasn't taking your shit and he didn't care that you wanted to do something else. You would listen. And you would look him the eye. And you did, because his voice his deeper than your Mom's and also when he stands up, it's almost like his head touches the ceiling (which is not so true of your Mom.)

But today? Today, when you ran the entire stretch of the house, took a running leap and flung yourself into the air over the arm of the couch -- with a MARKER in your hand - and then answered my question -- which was DO YOU NOT REMEMBER WHAT DADDY SAID LAST NIGHT?!?!? -- from your huddled perch on the bare wood floor where you fell, with the obvious reply that Daddy isn't here....

Well, I'm sorry that I laughed for those couple of seconds because I shouldn't have because Daddy is right and also, I'm sorry, so so sorry that I find these shenanigans in any way funny because I really, really need to stick with the plan, which is a good plan and the right plan. And my back hurts from that crap couch (which I keep writing as "coach" which is probably Freudian) so here's your grilled cheese and carrots: go eat dinner in the playroom tonight, there's no school tomorrow and I need to write this down.

Also, PS: daddy gets a kick out of it sometimes too. Trust me.