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Inventory of Broken Things

"The kids have broken everything except our spirit and the starch we attack our collars with."

“The kids have broken everything except our spirit and the starch we attack our collars with.”

A lot of people ask me what I do when I’m not writing, and, after a peel one child or another hanging like a sloth off my back, I’m always happy to answer…

“I watch my stuff get broken.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

“Sounds rough.”

“It’s awful.”

“Saw a lady like you on TV once.”

“Oh, really? I didn’t. Because my TV is broken.”

Kidding, the TV’s not broken yet. But stay tuned.

Watching things shatter around the Split level has become a spectator sport with only one spectator, who cries herself to sleep at night. The children don’t seem to think anything’s amiss. Careful observation confirms they might actually consider the ongoing destruction as work of some sort.

This is only an educated guess, as, occasionally, I’ll hear, “We’re workin’,” right before the sound of something exploding.

Things Broken This Week

1. One Coca Cola glass shattered on the bathroom floor.

2. Hole in the living room made larger by a baby who’s taken a sudden interest in remodeling, and developed a taste for old termite damage.

3. Two coffee cups broken by the author of this blog. She blames her frazzled nerves and children screaming like they’re being impaled by 15th century broad swords.

4. One dining room table indelibly marked with pen.

5. One Halloween costume ripped, after the wearer swore it would not get ripped if worn before Halloween.

6. One packet of cocoa from 2012 exploded on the computer. The keys are still working …for now.

7. Three noses almost broken due to various face planting techniques.

8. One of Husband’s razor attachments broken, which he won’t know about unless he reads this.

9. Disk drive removed from this laptop. Disk drive refuses to go back in.

10. One part found mysteriously floating around the bottom of the dishwasher. Dishwasher still works, so I chock this piece up to being non essential. None of the children seem to be to blame for this, but I can’t rule out the baby’s new obsession with trying to lock himself inside of said machine.

11.) One sweat jacket drawn on with washable marker which turned out to not be washable.

12.) Approximately ten new food stains added to the living room rug, two new ones to the couch, and one fairly suspicious-looking one in the twins’ room.

Now that I see everything typed out, it doesn’t really seem so bad. At least, that’s what my coffee cup tells me. But he’s really not that realiable. After all, he’s simply a surviver at this point, and probably won’t make it to next week.

Paige Kellerman blogs about marriage, babies and gin at www.paigekellerman.com, and is the author of At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles: Mostly-True Tales of An Impending Miracle. You can reach her at paigekellerman@gmail.com.

She also hides out on Twitter and Facebook.


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