I may not survive my children's childhood


Boy, n.: a noise with dirt on it.

I have arrived at the conclusion that as a parent, I get to survive childhood twice: mine and  theirs. Kids are fearless, curious and gross; each of these qualities contains an inherent risk.  They are also firmly grounded in the present moment, so as a rule they are not concerned with such matters as ‘cause & effect’ – at least not from the angle of consequences. If you do this, then that will happen. They’re all head in the clouds focused on getting their fun on.  They deal with cause and effect if and when it becomes an issue and even then they try to weave it into the story line.

I have to admit there is something admirable about that quality and Lord knows I have blogged one or 32 times on the importance of being in the present moment, but for the love of all things holy there has to be a middle ground people. I live in a home where I am clearly out numbered. I just count my blessings that it hasn’t occurred to them yet and things haven’t gotten all Lord of the Flies around here.

Their out numbering me really gets me by the sheer volume of toy shrapnel left in their wake on any given day. Every nook and cranny of my house reveals evidence of their presence. I wonder if it’s like some sick way of marking their turf, every where they go, they deposit a toy, just to let the next person know “ha, I was here first!”  Nowhere is this more evident than in the tub. The volume and variety of toys in the tub each day is impressive. I look at it and wonder what they heck went on in here?! Moment of truth: I’m never motivated enough when it comes time for me to take a shower to remove any of it, I just shower around it all.  This works just fine 91% of the time….the other 9% of the time I sustain some type of hard plastic, deep tissue, bruising sort of wound that leaves me cursing into my shower head as though some deranged ( and tiny) toy maker is perched in there orchestrating the entire debacle.

A few weeks ago I was showering, minding my own business, following the rules….wash, rinse, repeat (which by the way I’m convinced the “repeat” part of that process is a ploy by the manufacturer to get you to use more so you buy more…more mullah for them, I know, criminal right?) anyway, I’m getting a pretty impressive lather going on top of my head and decided before I got too involved that I should scout the tub floor so that I can strategically plant my feet while I rinse my hair.  This quick assessment revealed that I was keeping company with the following:

  • Batman
  • Bat mobile
  • A fleet of Hot Wheels cars
  • An 18-wheel truck
  • A water gun
  • Barbie
  • A bowl
  • A turkey baster ….wth?
  • And a bizarre car ramp/daredevil track mounted to the shower wall by two suction cups, one on each side of the rather long ramp.

I became a little distracted and disturbed by the way this ramp resembles a phallic symbol. My mind drifts to this internal dialogue about how toys should never, ever be made to resemble a phallic symbol and the toy maker who came up with this design really should be fired because it is obvious to me that they are using their position as toy maker to support their sick….then I felt a little shampoo making its way into my eye so I returned to my task of rinsing. I admit to making this next mistake…..with my eyes closed, rinsing I began to feel all creeped out when the mounted phallus, complete with fake flames brushed against me so I quickly took one ill placed step backwards, and that’s when I found him. The sneaky little, rifle toting Army man. He had been staking out the scene just to the left of the Bat mobile and had gone undetected earlier. It was clear to me that he was a rogue defector who was now stuck in the bottom of my foot, his rifle impaling my tender arch from the sheer force of our contact. Instantly I opened my eyes, soap eagerly spilling into their corners as I rattled of a string off inaudible noises (some cuss words I’m sure) as my hand groped the bottom of my foot. The shower floor was a slippery death trap so I leaned against the shower wall for stability only to be violated by the phallic ramp, which was now peaking out from under my arm. I felt terrorized. The Army man was launched and the perverted, flaming, phallic ramp was dismantled. That’s when it occurred to me that I might not survive my children’s childhood. I had survived my own, but this one may do me in.

Parenting is a dangerous thing people. Between their dirty little fingers, possessed toys and their inability to fully grasp cause and effect…these little people should be feared.