I mean, it’s fun unless you have to clean it up. If you know you have to clean it then it might register that the whole sofa will be made of some deadly black mold by the time it gets done fermenting the naked-toddler butt-grime, crumbs, randomly deposited residues from the hellscape my husband comes home from, and now given moisture and a super-growth medium such as dairy. Then it’s not fun. It’s horrifying. And destructive. This damn thing would be the devil’s fucking memory foam without the aid of combative upholstery soap. And it tipped me over the parental ledge from calm to a psychotic-angry-mom in about 10 nano-seconds.
Humor aside, the kids were upset. I mean, up until I tucked them in and cooled my jet engines. Then they were just pissed I wouldn’t bring up their favorite toys, which they had also spit milk on, but disappointments are part of life. Those toys will now surrender to the washer and hang dry by the wood stove.
Looking at this, if they weren’t my own kids I would have taken my final form and just eaten them whole or, more probably, just given them back to whatever wretchedness spawned such awful creatures, but, alas, I kind of like my minions — even when they’re terrible terrors. We’re kind of in this together so, we might as well stick it out. One day they’ll be able to cackle as hardcore as I can — or howl at the moon. Can’t wait for that. Until then we’ll be doing little kid stuff and breaking tiny rules that may or may not set me off.
Anyway, at least two hours and change later, all of the fabric items we sit on downstairs have been treated with the upholstery cleaning machine. Oh, and I’ve calmed down enough to register my parenting needs some work/we need to get a better system of fluid guarding down. At least now I register why stupid people just haul off and wallop a kid but neither yelling or walloping is correct – it’s just hard to always keep your shit tight with three-year-olds doing random shit everywhere. Literally, so much as an ounce of fluid becomes a potentially grand expense and/or insurance claim, depending on where they put/spit/piss/throw/gargle/vomit it. The idea parents can be so hyper vigilant that they cater to everything is abysmally naive. Nothing gets done if you just watch them — to a point it’s not even survivable to be that focused. And if you fail to watch them at all they destroy shit or put themselves in danger. Children are a no-win situation, folks… but we still jump for them for so many reasons.