The other day I discovered teeth marks in my deodorant, and upon further investigation, I observed that Julia's breath was remarkably shower fresh. I debated whether or not to call poison control, but I'm not sure if they keep a running total of how many times you call. I've already called once this month...I didn't want to push my luck.
It's official - nothing is sacred, not even the stuff that I smear on my armpits.
I've had my suspicions for a while - my favorite necklace that got broken, that perfect camisole that got transformed into a tube top by a toddler armed with scissors, the constant clomping of little feet shod in my shoes, their obsession with my latest crochet project, my broken watering can, the pen marks all over my sheet music, my super-cute purse that died a sad death from being sat upon, Julia's insistence on chewing on my running earbuds, and their deep-seated conviction that my food tastes better than theirs. Sometimes it feels like being beaten to death with feathers.
There's a book that's been around for years - the Five Love Languages. It's supposed to be really good, although I haven't found the time to read it yet. In spite of this, I propose an addition, because I am fairly certain that my kids' love language is destruction.
I know that my children love me, but it seems like they can't leave my stuff alone. Wait, let me rephrase that. I know that my children love me, and therefore, they can't leave my stuff alone.
How does that saying go? Imitation is the highest form of flattery, right? If you translate that to short-person logic, it goes like this: I love you so much that I'm going to play with (and subsequently break) all of the things that I see you wearing and using, because playing is how I learn and I'm learning all about you so that I can be just like you.
Well, girls, I'm flattered. And...I'll try not to take it personally.