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 other, other one wherein I question my life choices.

What do you do when your children are merrily playing *together* in the bath and one of them decides, hey I’ve really got to take a dump and I think I’ll just do that right now. In the tub. Right next to my sister. And our collection of rubber ducks?

Did you poop in my tub? Did. You. Poop. In my tub?
Did you poop in my tub? Did. You. Poop. In my tub?

A) First stand there and stare in utter disbelief, questioning many of the decisions you’ve made which brought you to this point.

B) Start hollering about how your children need to evacuate the tub without touching anything, fully expecting them to levitate above the bath time abomination and not spread poop juice around the house.

C) Begin draining the tub, hoping the flow of the water will somehow degrade the diameter of that awful mess, much like the Colorado River carved the Grand Canyon.

D) Get the kids out and just clean the damn tub with scalding water, bleach, and tears before making your kids take a stand-up, second bath before bed.

Should you find yourself in such a  situation, I would avoid choices A through C as they will lead you no closer to eradicating the offending matter. Not that I would know from first trying those choices or anything.

I mean, clearly, choice D is how one gets this whole thing taken care of in a timely manner.

What? Stop looking at me like you don’t believe me.

A solid, 34-year streak of not having to deal with fecal matter in bodies of water has ended. Let’s celebrate by drinking wine and eating baked goods after taking a shower so hot every window in the house fogs over. And burning those *brand new* yoga pants we were wearing.

This is why we can’t have nice things like bathtubs and cotton workout clothes.

Your Ever Faithful Duchess of Doo,

Mrs SmartyPants