Try a crown.
Now if I could just get them to stop calling themselves “princesses.”
[Excuse the pajamas. That's kinda just the way we roll.]
I’m thinking of adding a new weekly feature to my blog.
Perhaps — in deference to the latest crazy sweeping Facebook, Twitter and the web — I’ll call it: Sh*t My Kids Broke.
On second thought, I’d better make it a daily feature.
I have two sons. Precious, adorable, cherubic children. They are my daily delight. I love them more than life itself. But.
For starters, they’re two-and-a-half years apart in age. They have no older sisters. They have no sisters, period. They like to wrestle. They are mechanically-inclined. They are obsessed with kitchen utensils. They are currently under contract to the CIA for their preternatural ability to bypass the most advanced security systems known to man.
Take a moment and peruse these “During” photos of my home. Note the dearth of accessories, knick-knacks and objects d’art.
I possess such things. I just can’t display them.
Those of you who have boys — and I do mean to make that plural — will understand. Those of you with girls, or even one solitary prince sandwiched between your princesses, won’t understand the breadth of destruction which can be wreaked by the combined exertions of “the heir and the spare.”
I don’t make empty accusations. Let me give you a “for instance.”
My husband is gracious enough to shoulder several duties in preparing our home for visitors. Standing Order Numero Uno is: put the toilet paper holders back where they belong.
Oh, yes. My sons’ favorite sport is ripping the toilet paper holders off the walls.
Would your daughters ever even think of such a bizarre act of destruction?
Did I mention I’m outnumbered three-to-one in this house?
The toilet paper holder thing is not the worst they’ve done, and some other day, I will post a photo essay to account for more extreme examples of their destructive tendencies. For now, I will just stick to the issue at hand.
Now it looks like this:
They “somehow” (meaning I have a pretty good idea exactly how they did it but have no actual proof…) managed to snap this bolt supporting the chandelier.
I found the whole fixture dangling three feet lower than usual and supported only by the wiring. Yippy.
Word to the wise: If you are considering having children, forget Lamaze class and take a shop course at your local trade school. Plumbing, Electrical, General Contracting, whatever you can squeeze in. You won’t regret it.
I managed to locate the breaker box, find the right switch for the dining room and turn off the power, unwire the very heavy chandelier and stash it away until hubby can weld it to the ceiling.
I’m developing a greater understand of the phrase “driven to drink” every day.
Boys, I love you. But you should know I’ve been keeping each of you a running tab.
Hey, what comes after “trillion”? Anyone?