Tight Ships Still Leak
Ok, so since I quit my contract and went back into homemaker mode I've been a bit of a cleaning nazi. I admit it. For the past week I could have been mistaken for a Season 3 Kate Gosselin (no offense intended, Kate). I've been mopping, dusting, spraying, and washing like my house was about to be declared a bio-hazard. I've been chasing kids with facecloths as if the Popsicle they just let melt all over their hands was made of acid that would eat through any fabric furniture within seconds of touching it. I have become exactly the type person I have egregiously made fun of. And I'm okay with that.
I am running around the house whistling while I work. I am in my happy place. I am half-heartedly listening for bickering and/or crying so I can intervene before someone gets really hurt. I have set the 3 little ones loose with Play Dough on the back porch and the 2 big girls are engrossed with Webkins trivia games while I tackle the laundry mountain in my room before the slightest noise sets off an avalanche and my bed is buried. Things are going well, too well. After I fold some dish towels I decide to take them up to the kitchen and just take a quick peek at the kids. Although my timing was awesome I was not prepared. Not at all. As I approach the top of the stairs a strange aroma fills my nostrils. I see the girls at the computer, oblivious to what is going on literally inches from their backsides. One of the twins (who shall remain nameless) has discovered Ryan's electric charcoal starter underneath the barbecue cover. He has brought it into the house, set it on a faux leather office chair and plugged it in. I reached the office in time to see it glow red and sink into the seat foam. I stifled a small scream and lurched for the outlet. As I wheel the now branded chair to the deck the older girls lose sight of me in the billows of smoke flowing from the cushion.
I am such a good mom that I take my precious little sweetheart by the hand, lead him to the couch, sit him down, and sternly (but sweetly) ask him how he would feel if he burned the house down and killed us all. Suffice it to say I think he learned a lesson. So did I. He cares more about killing the dog than me.
I am running around the house whistling while I work. I am in my happy place. I am half-heartedly listening for bickering and/or crying so I can intervene before someone gets really hurt. I have set the 3 little ones loose with Play Dough on the back porch and the 2 big girls are engrossed with Webkins trivia games while I tackle the laundry mountain in my room before the slightest noise sets off an avalanche and my bed is buried. Things are going well, too well. After I fold some dish towels I decide to take them up to the kitchen and just take a quick peek at the kids. Although my timing was awesome I was not prepared. Not at all. As I approach the top of the stairs a strange aroma fills my nostrils. I see the girls at the computer, oblivious to what is going on literally inches from their backsides. One of the twins (who shall remain nameless) has discovered Ryan's electric charcoal starter underneath the barbecue cover. He has brought it into the house, set it on a faux leather office chair and plugged it in. I reached the office in time to see it glow red and sink into the seat foam. I stifled a small scream and lurched for the outlet. As I wheel the now branded chair to the deck the older girls lose sight of me in the billows of smoke flowing from the cushion.
I am such a good mom that I take my precious little sweetheart by the hand, lead him to the couch, sit him down, and sternly (but sweetly) ask him how he would feel if he burned the house down and killed us all. Suffice it to say I think he learned a lesson. So did I. He cares more about killing the dog than me.
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