W.’s Law of Housework

There's a Murphy's-like Law-type thing that happens in my household after I've finished cleaning it. I hereby dub it, W.'s Law of Housework.

For example, it is guaranteed that within a few hours of sweeping and mopping my floors (kitchen, dining room and both hallways), they will become pock marked with spilled chocolate milk, yogurt, and various other sticky-type substances which I am unable to identify. There is usually also a weird intensity that comes with these brand new messes. Super duper thick chocolate milk puddles, yogurt dripping off the table, down the back of the chair and onto the floor. It's as if these messes are trying to make up for lost time.

Within that same time-frame, I will find pieces of cereal (of various types. Today was chocolate peanut butter Puffs) ground up into my freshly vacuumed carpets (living room or girls' bedroom. S. is not very particular about where she likes to sneak and spill food.)

Scraping dried up toothpaste off of the girls bathroom counter so that I can actually see it, ensures that it will turn into another toothpaste-y mess after having the girls spend 2 minutes in their bathroom to brush their teeth (or some such activity which resembles brushing teeth). I swear more toothpaste ends up on the counter around their sink than actually on their toothbrushes. This is why I have to keep the toothpaste on top of the fridge and ration it out when it's time for them to brush their teeth.

Consequently, I also have to ration out their body wash/shampoo. After having to replace their body wash 3 days in a row, I got smart and bought a few little travel size bottles. I put some body wash in each one, put those on top of the fridge with the original bottle, and they get one little bottle at bath time. Otherwise, all 16 oz. of wash will end up as soapy bubbles in the bath tub, and the bottle will end up on the bathroom floor. All used up and unwanted.

After I have them move their dirty clothes from their bathroom to the laundry room, different clothes, hand towels and toilet paper spring up from between the floor tiles in full bloom. I'm lucky if I can still see the floor after their baths.

Toys make their way from their bedroom to the living room. Random assortments of blocks which have been crayoned, a broken crown, and stuffed animals gather in front of the couch, as if they're trying to hide from me. Waiting to go all commando on my house cleaning ass and overtake my living room floor! Some of them never make it past the kitchen though. I think those are the toys that just weren't determined enough to stage a coup -Hell, no! We won't go- back into that toy box, bitch- but thanks for playing.

Newly scrubbed walls and bedroom furniture in the girls room almost guarantees that one of the girls (again, usually S.) will find another rogue crayon, marker, pen… whatever; and try to go all Picasso on the re-virginized whiteness surrounding their room. And their desk. And their closet door.

A. occasionally includes a signature in her bedroom wall art pieces. That's nice, because then I know who to punish. Although it's really not that hard to distinguish between A.'s works of art, and S.'s "works of art". A.'s usually has letters, and people, and arrows pointing from one thing to another (she's gotten quite fond of creating illustrated flow charts). S. just scribbles. Scribble, scribble, scribble. Sometimes they look like something, usually they don't. But she is, by far, the most prolific vandal in this house.

Also, less in the house work tangent and more in the "random ass observation" tangent-

They don't seem to understand what "quiet time" means.

Quiet time: a time in which rowdy girl chil'lins must away to their once pristine, white-walled bedroom and *gasp* BE QUIET for a little bit. So that I, the mater familias, may enjoy the sounds of the keyboard tip-tapping (if that) and nothing else.

I have explained to them the rules. Numerous times, even.

"Its quiet time, girls. That means you go into your rooms, and you. Be. Quiet."

It is as if I'm speaking to them in Esperanto, but they only understand the black-hole-space-quark-left-of-Milky-Way dialect of martian-ese.

And of course, this means that they pounce in and out of their bedroom, grabbing at each other's arms in the hallway and bossing each other around- loudly.

This also means that occasionally A. will yell out, "Is quiet time over yet?"

Uh, did it ever really begin?!?!

I think W.'s Law can really be summed up in this way:

An object or space which has been thoroughly cleaned will remain cleaned only in the event that children have grown up and moved out of the house. Even then, a perpetually clean house will only remain such if said children have clothing washers and dryers in their own "spaces" (home, apartment, dorm room, rv trailer) and which they have been thoroughly trained in its proper daily operation, thereby eliminating the need to come home and toss five weeks worth of reeking laundry onto the floor for mom to do.

Note to the college kids: Using the washing machine to make moonshine is not considered proper usage of such appliances.

The Not-Fun Fair

The Tucson 4^th Avenue Street fair came and went this past weekend. Over 400 vendors selling various types of crafts, art, clothing and other goods, it seemed like an interesting time to me. And I thought I read somewhere that they would have activities for the kiddos, too. Like a jumpy castle or something like that.

So Saturday, I talked dh into coming and we loaded up the girls and head downtown.

Within minutes of spying the start of the booths, A. began badgering us about doing something fun. "Just wait," I told her. "We're looking for it."

Several more badgerings and a complete walk around the entire fair later, not a single jumpy castle was to be seen. Or anything else "kid-friendly" for that matter, in terms of entertainment. There was a really small Ferris wheel towards the end, but it looked lame, I was tired, the girls were tired… A. was already upset that we didn't find a jumpy castle, I didn't think she'd notice the stupid Ferris wheel (and she didn't) and so we proceeded the three blocks or so back to the car.

The admonishments began simple enough.

"Mama, that fun fair wasn't a fun fair," A. told me once we got settled into the car. "It was a no-fun fair."

I couldn't exactly argue with that… we did see some cool paintings but really the most beneficial part of the whole afternoon is that I felt better knowing I had gotten so much walking in that day. Other than that, I was in complete agreement with A. What could I do but apologize and promise we won't come back ever again?

You'd think a promise like that would allow her to just. Let. Go.

But no.

Sunday A. began to really turn on the heat about my terrible decision to drag them all to the fair on a very warm Saturday afternoon for an activity that had very little entertainment value for any of us.

"Mama, remember the time you took us to the no-fun fair?"

How could I forget?

I can't. Because even if my addled brain somehow dumped that afternoon from my memory, A. will be there to pick it right up and shove it in my face.

I know this, because that's all I've heard about it in spurts throughout the week, since Sunday.

"Mama, remember that time you took us to the no-fun fair? It wasn't fun. I don't want to do that again." She has said accusingly.

Over, and over again.

As if I'd spent her college fund on blow and hookers. Or something.

Could I feel any more terrible about spending a perfectly good Saturday afternoon at that fair? A. will make sure that I do, I'm almost positive of this.

However, the other upside (for me, not so much the girls) is that I got to see all of the cute, neat little shops up and down 4^th Ave. that I've never seen before. A few I've heard of, barely, like the Chocolate Iguana ( I believe it's a coffee shop). So I did come up with a list of places I'd like to try eating at, or visiting some other time.

Just, not while the "not-fun" fair is going on.

Can I have a Real Baby?

First, some backstory.

I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned that A. is completely obsessed with having another baby brother or sister. This is a request she's been making for about a year now, and she's turned up the heat after two of our friends had babies in December. Well, now she not only wants one more baby brother or sister, but two. I asked her how many kids would be in the house then, wondering if she really meant two more babies. She counted, "me, S., one baby girl and one baby boy- that's 4". Apparently, she knew exactly what she was asking for. But this is one of our more interesting exchanges regarding infant additions to our household.

*note: we haven't completely written off having one or two more children. Just. Not. Now. Or next year. Or the year after that. And yes, I am perfectly comfortable with their being a 9-10 year age difference between A., the eldest, and the baby. Completely.

So anyways, without further ado…

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A: Are we going to go to New York?

(I have no idea where she got this idea from)

Me: No.

A: Is that because it's not on the planet?

Me: No. It's on the planet. We're just not going there.

A: Ever?

Me: Maybe someday, a long, long time from now.

A: I want to go to New York and get a baby.

Me: What kind of baby do you want to get?

A: One that comes with pink, and can wear flowers and stripes and dresses.

Me: You want a girl baby?

A: Yes.

Me: Do you want a real baby or a doll?

A: A real baby.

Me: One that pees and poops?

A: Yes, but I want you to clean it up when it poops.

Me: Mmmmm. So, you don't want a real baby?

A: I do, I just don't want to clean it up when it poops. I want you to do it.

Me: Yeah. That's not going to happen. Sorry about that.

Trail of Tears

Do you know what happens when you get soooo tired that your eyes close and you doze off for thirty minutes in the late afternoon while the girls are still up and at 'em?

Yes. That is a trail of Lucky Charms cereal (and the spilled chocolate milk), which mysteriously jumped out of the cereal box in the pantry and scattered itself all over my kitchen, dining room, and front entrance.

Or maybe not so mysteriously. Because I know exactly who the culprit is.

I don't want to give her away, but I'll tell you that she's very short, her first name starts with an S. and ends with an A.

And the trail didn't stop at the front hallway.

It continued on into the living room. I don't have pictures of that though, because when I first told S. to clean up, she started right there in the living room.

By eating the cereal off the floor.

She's so delicate, let me tell you.

She was supposed to clean up the rest, too. I gave her thirty minutes. Thirty minutes because after that it was going to be time to go to the gym.

Because S. is a stubborn, stubborn child and refused to clean up the rest of her mess, and because dh was at a class until 6:30- I missed Body Combat tonight. Which now makes me cranky, because I've gained quite a bit of weight in the last several months, and then more in the last three weeks. I've been much better about getting to the gym lately, I go at least twice a week, but I'd like to go more. Anyways, now I get a little cranky when I miss the gym- like I did on Monday. And now tonight.

Grrrrrrrr.

But I think I'm going to go the gym anyways and just do some time on the elliptical, or the tread mill or stair climber or some such thing. Which I hate more than anything. Which is why I take the classes.

But one way or the other, I have to get out of this house.

Otherwise, I just might end up tossing dishes into the wall (which I occasionally fantasize about when I'm uber-pissed). Or maybe even kids...

I'm just joking about that last part, folks.

But seriously...