My life has reached a new low. On Fridays I used to feel like the song by one Johnny Kemp – happy, out hunting for a party. Now, Fridays are more like Crazy Train.
What happened tonight in this house takes a whole new cake, more so than any other cake taken by the Terror Twins as they unleashed their special brand of terror on this house. I feel the odds stacking against us and it isn’t good.
It started with both of them sitting at the dining table after dinner – the dinner they didn’t eat. They were giggling and making funny voices and then they started a farting contest. Chubs is only 2 & 1/2 but she was farting so loud it sounded like she ripped the seat cushion. M, who is 4 & 1/2 was trying to keep up. Chubs fired up another, looked at M and said “Your Turn!” M strained for her turn and then she said “Uh oh.”
“I POOPED MY PANTS.”
Huh. She’s never done that before. Real Estate Dad said, “You’re KIDDING. No you didn’t. You couldn’t have.” You could smell it though. He confirmed there was poop and yelled “M Come on! Take your pants off and dump it in the toilet.” Chubs jumped off her chair and ran to the bathroom yelling “Can I see M? Can I see the poop in your pants?”
They both emerged from the bathroom naked, and promptly started jumping off the arm of the couch. I kept saying it was all fun and games until someone loses an eye but they didn’t listen. Their jumps got scarier as the night wore on. Real Estate Dad asked if I was going to stop it. I said no because at this point the couch jump was the only chance we had of them possibly burning off their remaining energy.
After 25 or 30 minutes I finally told them they had to run up and down the stairs five times, no cheating. Chubs was standing there listening to my instructions and Real Estate Dad says, “Chubs, you’re bleeding!” There was blood all over her hand. She looked, wiped it on our couch, then started to cry.
Got them showered, pajamaed and then I too felt like crying. Except I had to go downstairs and clean up 90 legos, about 100 doll house pieces and a bunch of ripped books.
Passive Aggressive: Throwing away or donating one toy of your child’s, every night after they go to sleep because you’re sick of picking it up.
Slap in the Face: We have to do this all over again tomorrow.