Friday, July 10, 2015

My Kids Are Trying to Kill Me

My kids are trying to kill me. They appear to be sweet and innocent, but in reality they are just tiny geniuses that spend their days plotting my demise. And I’m starting to crack. Let’s start with the toys. To the untrained eye, my house simply looks like a tornado came careening through it. But take a closer look and you might see that they have meticulously placed their Legos, Barbie shoes, and matchbox cars right at the bottom of the steps or outside my bedroom door. This trick usually results in the obvious I-hate-the-bottom-of-my-feet-right-now feeling. But if they’re lucky, my knees buckle at the pain shooting through my feet and I fall on said toys, piercing my knees and palms as well. Accident? I think not! If they’re feeling particularly malicious, they line these death traps up next to their beds and scream for me in the wee hours of the morning, just so they can catch me when I’m most vulnerable.

Does the torment stop there? Of course not. As of late, these masterminds have enjoyed taking the loudest, most obnoxious toy they own and placing it next to my pillow, so when I roll over the stupid thing goes off, giving me the heart attack they hoped for. They get extra points for using the seemingly-possessed doll that flashes its eyes open and closed while crying for Mama. I would LOVE to have a chat with whichever toymaker came up with that idea. They clearly did not have children of their own.

The only time I’m truly safe from their scheming is when they are asleep. Have you ever watched a child sleep? It is truly one of the most angelic things in the world. There are several times when I stand next to their beds and just stare at them. What I never thought of, however, was that my kids would do the same thing to me. But they don’t just watch me sleep and then silently leave my room. No. They get two inches from my face and scream-whisper, “Mommy! Wake up!”

I would like to blame each of my kids equally, but I have a feeling these are primarily the workings of my 5-year old inciter with help from her minions. What they’re really doing is playing an unfair hand. I cannot (in good conscience) reciprocate with death-plots of my own. I guess my payback will have to wait until they’re older, and it will come in the form of curfews, rules, chores, and volunteering to chaperone every high school dance.

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