Living with Miniature Space Invaders

My house used to be my domain.

I’ve never been a stickler for neatness (nor am I a horrible slob), but I do appreciate our long, pine dining table, attractive olive green sofa and pretty goblets drying in the dish rack.

I like fresh flowers here and there and the occasional scented candle.

Turns out I don’t so much enjoy plastic drinking cups dotted about. Or couch cushions spread across the floor or heaps of Legos in the middle of the kitchen that I am not, under threat of howling tantrum, allowed to move.

I understand such messes come with the territory of having two small beasts (that we euphemistically refer to as children) living under our roof. But, holy Roomba Catgirl, it’s been an adjustment.

For me to take a bath in our super deep tub with jets, I have to first rinse out the grass stained clothes soaking in there. Usually, I decide it’s too much work and, instead, jump in the shower. Or just, you know, wallow in my own grease.

Where jazz and R&B used to stream pleasantly from my stereo speakers, I now have gotten used to the blaring of La Cucaracha and Big Rock Candy Mountain. I even find myself humming the insidious tunes when the music has been turned off.

I’ve tried, oh how I’ve tried, to institute kid-free zones in the house.

Every few months, I warble, “No toys in my bedroom from here on out! None!”

“Okay,” the kids respond half-heartedly.

But then, in a weak moment, I let them watch TV on my bed. Things get left behind and, as I’m turning over at night, I find myself face-to-face with Mr. Potato Head.

I know that, in a few years (20 maybe?) I’ll get my grown-up space back. But, in the meantime, I have to come to terms with the goldfish crackers, fruit leathers and jelly beans that have replaced my jars of wasabi mixed nuts and plates of aged cheeses in the kitchen.

And I guess I just have to learn to live with Weebles in my underwear drawer.