all your personal space are belong to us

All your privacy are belong to me.
All your personal space are belong to us.

I pen this missive from the darkest corner of the bedroom closet. The last foothold in our home where you can eat the only peanut butter cup left in the house without fear of the resulting retribution. A place where I should seriously reconsider relocating the shower and toilet as it is the lone destination where they have not been able to detect what is going on within. Thus, it is also the place where I take nap time conference calls, and where today I cower, laptop dimmed and keys lightly plinking so as to not alert those in charge that I am close by.

The personal space of the parental units in our home has been under siege for the last four and a half years. Good Lord, don’t forget to include that half year when addressing the opposing side’s senior in command, also known as The Tiny One. Since being elevated in the ranks following the arrival of her Lieutenant, also known as The Squishy One, her power has grown exponentially. As such, I wish not to have the punishment of such an egregious omission fall upon you.

I tell you this tale today in the hope that someone will send aid in the form of wine and reading material as there is no longer a black market for cigarettes and vodka. This should also be considered a cautionary tale for those anticipating their own invasion, or those, like us, currently under occupation.

Our war – or as some may deem it, military action – began escalating upon The Squishy One’s arrival and as The Tiny One gained power. Where as before there were moments of solitary bliss – never long enough for a relaxing pee, but moments all the same – should we find that window now we must beware the silence is a trap, and signals far worse dangers to come. A trap from which we will escape only to find widespread property damage, with the epicenter of the destruction focused on a piece of furniture or another really nice object purchased prior to the invasion, and certainly an item which we likely can no longer bring ourselves to spend enough money on to properly replace.

Pay very close attention to those silence traps when you are reading some pithy article about celebrity facelifts or commenting on your friend from fourth grade’s sister’s, daughter’s, dog’s latest Facebook photo. We have learned that the use of all electronic devices on the premises is no longer tolerated, and will result in a much larger offensive.

The Squishy One determined early in his career that all electronics belonging to the parental units in this home are his mortal enemies. He was born knowing his destiny is to one day eradicate all traces of Apple products from our household in order to allow trains, tattered books, and those dollar bin toys that multiply in the night to gain a strong foothold. We can only compare it to living with an Amish Gang Lord.

In the last few years The Tiny One and The Squishy One have stepped up their propaganda campaigns, littering our fridge, countertops, and floors with crude drawings of my husband and I, and booklets declaring how much they really do love this family. We are quite impressed that their psychological campaign continues to become more sophisticated while their guerrilla techniques on the ground continue to remain impressive and unpredictable. Just the other day The Squishy One lay on the floor, wriggling his fingers under and shouting through the gap beneath the door before one of us was even mid-stream.

We continue to study their techniques, but they continue to adjust to our defensive measures. Our current intelligence indicates this battle could continue for at least the next 16-18 years, but we continue to observe and remount based on sitter availability and the possible advent of financially reasonable sound proof rooms.

Fighting the good fight for privacy deprived parents everywhere,

Mrs SmartyPants

The World’s Okayest Mom

okayestmomIt is a documented fact veteran parents like to school those of us who have been active in the field for less than five years on time dilation, and the maximum enjoyability factor of our childrens’ youths. They are mother f’ng scientists in street clothes, my friends. Scientists of time who spend their days haunting the most sugar laden isles and longest checkout lines in grocery stores, waiting for the first sign of a child’s tears and tantrums to appear. They pop out of their labs, which I assume are located by the hemp milk and flax seed, and where I assume they are busy studying how to extract maximum enjoyment from potty training accidents and feeding an infant with cracked nipples, as your child is reaching def-con forty. They appear just long enough to to tell you how much you should be enjoying every day because of how quickly it passes and then poof, they are gone.

They also sometimes tell you about how every day is a miracle, which on that point I really can’t argue. Because yes, at the end of the day it is a damned miracle both of my children are alive after one has jumped from the kitchen counter to give the other a diamond cutter. We aren’t really sure how he gets up there, and can only assume hoover boards really do exist.

It is a miracle I haven’t been hauled out in a straight jacket after being told the same knock-knock joke for the seven-frillion and forty seventh time since lunch. Spoiler Alert: It’s that asshole Interrupting Cow again.

It is a miracle that our house is still standing after I tried to make those homemade, real fruit snack thingys from Pinterest and instead caught the bottom of a saucepan on fire. A general note: if you can cook with gelatin you are a certified witch, and your trickery should not be used to instill false confidence in us lay people via pretty Pinned pictures.

As I haul my children out of the grocery store, listening to my oldest tell me how much I don’t love her because I didn’t buy her the box of breakfast diabetes with the tiger on it, I can’t help but wonder, when I will look back at all this with a wistful look in my eyes? When will it be my turn to pop out of my lab by the milk substitutes and let other parents know how mediocre their parenting is because they aren’t savoring every poopy diaper and epic meltdown?

For now, I suppose I will have to settle for being the World’s Okayest Mom, and find joy in just getting to the end of each day with everyone’s limbs in tact, the house still standing, and not being forcibly removed from my home.

Yours Truly in Mediocrity,

Mrs SmartyPants