Now that Jocelyn is three and Aja is nearing her two-year mark, I am able to peek through the fog of babydom and find solace in the fact that I will one day soon get my house back.
They have ripped down blinds in both the kitchen and the living room (Aja). Red crayon has decorated the walls in various rooms (Jocelyn). Cream cheese and peanut butter have been mashed into the fabric of the couch (both). They have broken the knob on the heater (Nana*) and peed on the floor (both).
We once had a corner of the living room dedicated to use as our office. Slowly, as the months ticked by and Jocelyn went from rolling to crawling to walking, the couch inched back closer and closer to the wall, making the office inaccessible for her small hands and her vacuum of a mouth. Of course, the office is now just as inaccessible for Khary and I, and I now use the couch as my desk, which has done wonders for my ass.
My friend Sarah showed her son pictures of the girls in preparation for our upcoming stay at their house. He stared at picture after picture of my sweet girls and then said to her, “Ok, the little one can have my bed. But not that big sister. She looks like she would tear things up!”
Little does he know the destruction that can occur at the hands of little Aja.
In an effort to de-clutter and inch a step closer to the day when we can reclaim our home, we did a small purge of toys. Stuffed animals that they have ignored and the small odds and ends that fell to the bottom of the toy box were packed up under the cover of darkness. Had they seen this organizational feat they would have suddenly rediscovered their love of that dirty rabbit rattle that hasn’t been touched in over a year. I am contemplating a second undercover raid to see what will be missed. We have a finite amount of time before they start memorizing where each toy belongs.
I am not a highly organized person, but I still dream of the day when I can use areas of the house as they were originally intended—when I can unblock the hallways, and place the lamp, which is currently located behind a bookshelf in the corner, next to the couch and I won’t have to worry about it getting knocked over.
Of course, damage at the hands of my children will occur for years to come, but in different ways. I am guilty of spilling nail polish remover on my mother’s end tables when I was fifteen or sixteen, taking the wood finish right off with the cotton balls I used to mop it up.
As long as they stop peeing on the floor.
*Nana only contributed to the knob of the heater loosening and eventually being ripped off by Aja. She did, however, break our toaster, so she will forever be next in line if we’re looking to place blame. This is done out of love.
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