Killjoy

There are some days that I feel my middle name should be Killjoy. At least to my kids.

It’s hard for them to understand that I would like to see them live to adulthood (though I might regret it when I’ve got three teenage girls living under my roof).

I know they think I'm being mean and unreasonable in outlawing so many of their good ideas. And since I'm starting to get a complex about it, I'd like to present the evidence to you, for some reinforcement.

Here is a sample of some of the events I've put my foot down on in the last week.

...A toddler sifting through a 5 gallon bucket of flour.

...A preschooler putting her hands or feet on the baby twenty times each day (Actual quote heard in the car: "Lily laughs when I put my toe in her mouth!") I will refrain from quoting my response.

...A kindergartner wedging an exercise ball between my bed and the window and inviting her sister and friends to try out her homemade trampoline.

As well as being the recipients of my lecturing, Sage and Eliza know how to reverse the roles.

Just this morning, at the breakfast table, Eliza told me, “Mommy, it’s not your job to take a bath with an alligator."

And Sage has spent the last few days playing "school," where she is always the teacher. (The exercise ball-trampoline stunt took place at "recess.")

I enjoy a good time as much as my kids do, but I tend to reject the "activities" that involve excessive cleanup, germs, or gravity-defying moves.

And while I'm not willing to compromise on some things (like putting toes in the baby's mouth), I think I could ease up a little--particularly those that require extra preparation or cleanup on my part.

Like eating breakfast in the garden.

Or letting the kids use straws more often (which is synonymous with asking for puddles of milk on the table).

Or have "kitty day" like my mom sometimes did (where we got to eat without using our hands).

Or letting my kids help me cook.

With aprons, though.

Because when it really comes down to it, I know I'd rather my girls remember how much fun we had in these special (fleeting) years together, rather than how sparkling clean my kitchen floor was.

Okay, I admit it; the floor is only sparkling for about thirty seconds every third day. I guess my real hope should be that I can cover up the memories of a constantly dirty floor with memories of how many fun activities we did in the kitchen together.... Like letting the baby sift through the flour bucket so I am forced to sweep the floor??? Hmmm.