This is my cry for help. I am being held as a hostage in my own home. Every day of my life. And what’s the worst thing about my situation? I created and birthed these tiny, masterminds.
Baby Terrorism is alive and thriving here in the Todryk Abode. Especially this week. Currently, as I write this my eldest child is screaming in a language very foreign to anyone who walks this great planet. I made out the word toilet paper but the rest shall never be known. My job sounds simple and delightful. I am a full-time stay at home mom to two beautiful children. I am SO grateful that I have the ability to stay home and raise my babies, watch them play and learn, witness hilarious moments that I would have missed if I was gone all day and most importantly, I get to be the person that gets to love on them 24/7. From every small perfect somersault they make to every large or small boo-boo they acquire every day, Mama is here to cheer them on or slap a Band-Aid on it. I love my job. Let’s get that straight from the beginning.
My children are small adorable blue-eyed blonde creatures. Germany’s poster children. And my son Von even has the German name to boot. And normally they are the happiest kids I’ve ever come in contact with
But sometimes they morph into beasts that cannot be reckoned with. Terrorists. Real, living, extremely short terrorists that are way smarter than they look.
They have special powers.
While I am attempting small tasks that should be easy, they can somehow make me feel like I am performing brain surgery. Unloading the dishwasher has always been a daily task, that was never enjoyable, but never life threatening until now. Why must my child always go for the knives? Is this a sign of what is to become of the larger terrorist? Why can’t he just help Mama unload the dishwasher so I can post a super cute photo on Facebook boasting about “my little helper!” like so many people seem to do.
You want to see what I could post while unloading the dishwasher with my little samurai sword slinger…. I mean, helper?
Well you can’t. Because I would be reported to CPS. And I will not go down that way.
Putting away laundry. Just shut up, because that ain’t never going to happen.
Yesterday my son was being adorable (He was in normal child mode, he had not yet morphed.) He had turned over a laundry basket and was climbing on top counting to three then would yell “GO MAMA!” and would step down and clap for himself.
Repeat 24 times. It was great.
He was practicing counting and I was able to hang up some shirts that had been in the laundry basket since four months ago. It should have been a Huggies commercial. Then he steps down on the edge of the laundry basket and cuts two toes wide open somehow. Needless to say, the counting stopped, the shirts remain unfolded in the basket, and the rest of the day his boo-boo got him anything he wanted.
He’s no dummy. Terrorists are smart you know.
My son calls the garage door “garbage door” and it’s adorable. What’s not adorable is the daily, daunting task of getting everyone out the “Garbage door”. One kid is one kid, two kids are six kids. Basically, if I’m meeting someone for lunch we start getting ready at 5 am, Just protocol. A little bit of my very A-type personality is to blame, but my finger is pointed at the terrorist group for about 70% of why it takes us so long to get out the Garbage door and into the car.
Usually, seven situations arise before we can actually leave. And I must solve and destroy all issues or we all fall apart.
The smallest terrorist, named Berkley, is known for bringin’ the stank. I think the larger one tells her when we are about to open the door to leave and then she detonates the bomb of human waste.
Thank God she is a breastfed terrorist, at least it doesn’t smell.
A few days ago we start to head out to Target. As we make our way to the Garbage door, I stop. I stand tall and slightly puff out my chest, clearly portraying dominance. As if to say, “Come at me midgets. Show me whatcha got. A little fecal matter? Bring it.” (Diaper and wipes in hand, I need quick access.) The larger one slowly smiles…. he tends to do this often, trying to throw me off my game I suspect. I stare. Your smiles mean nothing when about to leave the house. I see right through your charm.
I wait a few more seconds then deem it safe to leave. No poop today.
There is justice….
Or someone is constipated. Which is fine and will be addressed after Target.
These are just a couple of situations from the past week, and if I were to go on, well, it would take up your entire day…. so better not. But every day is a new day with new attacks and poop bombs to face. (I mean this literally, poop to the face has absolutely happened, more than once.) These small beings are trying to break me, but I cannot be broken.
I may cry behind closed doors when they are not looking, I may curse under my breath out of frustration and smoothly transition it into a Disney song with a smile and I may take out my stress on their father because it’s his fault they are acting so horrible. They are his children.
The Baby Terrorists are sabotaging my brain, but I love them with everything I have.
Plus- what goes around comes around, sweet babes. Yes, one day I myself will be able to make a mind-blowing poop bomb for you.
I just hope I’m lucid enough to enjoy it.
– Until the next time this Redhead rambles.
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The Terrorists, looking all adorable. (pre-morph).