They’re JUST. LEGOS.
It’s JUST a granola bar.
It’s JUST a piece of paper.
I feel like Bill Murray in Groundhog’s Day, only with crotchfruit. Will it never end? Am I talking to myself? DID I DIE AND NO ONE TELL ME AND IF SO, WHERE IS HAYLEY JOEL OSMENT TO SEE MY DEAD ASS?
This season has been the season of fights, and while sometimes, I handle it with class, most of the time I feel like I’m drowning, and damnit, Rose won’t let me on that fucking door. What ever happened to never letting go?
There are a million Legos, pieces of paper, and variations of granola bars in this damn house, but apparently there are invisible names on each of them. If I had a nickle every time one of my children complained about the other messing with “THEIR” Lego, or “THEIR” piece of paper, or “THEIR” granola bar, I’d have a sack of nickels to use as a nun-chuck. Over and over again I tell them, remind them, plead with them, scold them- it’s not YOURS. It does not belong to just you. You have things that are just yours, but this is not one of them. Deal with it.
It’s so bad that one kid will leave the room, abandoning said Legos, and go upstairs. There they remain for an hour, maybe two, while the other is left in the living room playing alone. This isn’t a Skittle you drop on the floor and yell “FIVE SECOND RULE!” as if suddenly it becomes tainted at 6 seconds, but before then, it’s still delicious, germ-free, sugary goodness. This is not calling shotgun in the car. This is 5 tiny fucking blocks out of a million that you left on the floor because you didn’t want to play with them anymore. They became free territory. Only, somehow, this doesn’t register withn my children, because once that hour or two is over, and they come back downstairs, suddenly they are SO HIGHLY OFFENDED that the Legos they dumped in the middle of the fucking floor are no longer left dumped in the same place. “HOW COULD YOU?! THAT WAS MY LEGO!” and then comes my favorite part, the tattle. “MOMMMYYYY! HE BROKE MY LEGOS AGAIN!”
You may love the movie Groundhogs Day, but trust me, you don’t want to live it. Classy, calm-response mommy has left the building.
It was time for what many people refer to as “real talk”. Are they too young for real talk? Maybe. Do I care? Not really.
The next time I heard “HE BROKE MY…” – which didn’t even taken 5 minutes, I very calmly (read: scarily) I said, “let me stop you right there. First of all, he didn’t BREAK anything. They are Legos. They are meant to be taken apart, and put back together. Second of all, YOU WALKED THE FUCK AWAY, leaving them in the MIDDLE OF MY FLOOR. You didn’t care about them then, so you have no right to care about them now. And technically speaking, they are MY Legos. I paid for them. And I say he can play with them. So take that whiny shit somewhere else. I don’t wanna hear that crap ever again. EVER. I will throw Legos in the trash the next time you argue over them.”
And then, of course, they’re all “but, but but…”
And that is when I unleash the fury- “You think YOU have problems?? I just finished bleeding from my vagina for a week, which gave me explosive disgusting poops and sore boobs, only to be followed by ginormous pimples when I was promised pimples would stop after puberty. WELL THEY DIDN’T! And ya know what else? I found seven new gray hairs and three new wrinkles today. If the worst thing that happens to you today is WAHHHH MY BROTHER BROKE MY LEGOS! you are having a PRETTY GOOD LIFE. SO SHUT YER HOLE!”
What was that? Oh, just the sound of me dropping the mic.
Many Legos have had their stay here ended by getting dumped in the trash can. It’s the most satisfying waste of money EVER. Many arguments have been ended by me dumping the disturbing truth on them. They have to learn how to value their “problems” one way or another, right? They should be thanking me.
They will. One day. Once I’ve paid their therapy bills.
Every. single. time. pic.twitter.com/qxy23khtts
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