Dirt Clods, Rebar and Heavy Equipment

When I say to my kids, "Please put that (insert dangerous noun) down and walk away right now" 3 times with increasing intensity, I expect that they understand what's coming next.

I'm an idiot.  

I become incontinent with frustration for just a flash of a second.  I wish I could write what it looks and sounds like (minus the pee, of course).  But I've mentioned this name before: Sam Kinison only turned inward.  That's what you should imagine. The only problem is that my kids laugh at me as much as I used to laugh at Sam.

Love and Logic can (sometimes) kiss my a** even though it works relatively well when employed correctly. But it presupposes that all parties are well-adjusted, well-fed and non-sleep-deprived. Also neither parents nor children can be going through anything major in their lives (such as a chronically absent father or construction projects or underlying special needs). It's simple really.  But we have to have books to get us here.  All I want is to say (and have heeded without any parental voodoo or rigamarole or back talk) is "kids, get off the rebar, let go of the heavy equipment, stand down from the hose I'm trying to move or else I'm going to pop this vein on my left temple all the way out.  As in, this place is about to look like the set of Dexter just from sheer force of blood pressure.  Y'all better commence to listenin' right this stinking second, or else!"

Who'm I kiddin'!? I do say it but that's about the extent of it...

Henry likes to take things apart.  He dismantled the nice nickel stopper in the main level guest bath.  Looks right down the drain now.  Super classy.  Nobody but he knows where the damn thing went.  And now it's been so long he doesn't even remember.

Both kids wondered about doorstops for a while, too. Then they just decided to remove them all 2 years ago and start slamming the doors directly into the walls.  Nice.  Also a very classy look.

There was a time before they got really big (a time that seems like milliseconds ago for me but is probably more like 3 or 4 years already) that I thought it would get easier to keep the house neat and tidy.

Again, how many times do I have to admit this: I am an idiot.

Their clothes are bigger now. The dirt clods on their shoes are bigger. The feet that trample those dirt clods into every carpet, rug,  crevasse, corner, piece of clothing and head of hair are bigger.  Why I thought the messes would get smaller, I have no idea.

It's about to get a lot dirtier. We're on our way to another TBall game tonight when it's supposed to be over 87*, bone dry and windy. Can you say dirt between my teeth? Does anybody out there appreciate how difficult this all is for somebody 'mired' in dirt control issues? I'm light years ahead of where I used to be but I've still got galaxies to travel before being truly filth-integrated.  I'm not saying my house and life are clean. I'm just saying I have major issues with that.  It appears my major life issues are sprouting issue-lettes now.

Despite and amidst the grit and grime, I just hope I can keep it light and fun for the kids tonight.  They're all so wonderful.  Even my kids. Especially when they're dirty. The funny thing about my OCD is that it doesn't seem to be related at all to kids themselves.  In fact,  I love dirty-faced little kids with baseball gloves on. They are the cutest of all. They just get cuter and cuter in the midst of new sports situations--but most especially in baseball. The single dirtiest, dustiest and grassed stained-est of all the major sports. 

If I could just take that appreciation to my kitchen floor and (frankly at this point) every other room in my house, I'd be the most peaceful dirt monger on earth.

One clod at a time--and I'm talking about the dirt, not the idiot.