Children are masters at wrecking stuff.
I’m not even talking about their mothers’ bodies, peace of mind or plans for Friday night. I’m just, shallowly, talking about stuff.
Stuff like potted plants, picture frames, yoga mats and painted walls. Stuff like chapstick tubes, favorite coffee mugs, screen doors and brown sugar bears. Stuff like glasses, bowls, plates and your favorite figurine you’ve had since you were a kid.
If you’ve got it, they can wreck it.
And three year olds? Three year olds are wreckin’ it masters.
When Clara was three, John named her The Anarchist.
The universe, finding us cute in our naivety, sent us Jane.
Jane, Anarchist 2.0, puts Clara’s attempts to shame.
Or, *sigh* to be perfectly honest, it’s that with Jane, the third child, came a reduction of her mother’s brain cells. Leaving her poor mother with a memory and attention span that not even a goldfish would envy.
Sadly, that’d be me.
I routinely get distracted somewhere between “Why has Jane been so quiet for the last ten minutes?” and “I better go check on her.” This gives Anarchist 2.0 more than enough time to ply her skills around, say, the bathroom while she, could possibly, empty all the lotion, conditioner, shampoo and stick the band-aids to the toilet, hypothetically of course…
So, if you come to visit and you wonder why we use mason jars as glasses, have band-aids stuck to odd items and finger holes in the screen door. Just remember, an anarchist and a goldfish mom are not a pretty combination, you might want to save yourself while you still can. Heaven knows I won’t remember to warn you about the slippery bathroom floor!