“Mom, look, I wrote you a NICE note! It says: ‘Hi, Mom! Please help me clean.'”

*shows me a piece of paper with scribbles*

“Oh, really Everlee? What are you going to clean? I will help.”

*giggles*

“OH! I read it wrong. It says: ‘ Dear Mom. I am NOT going to clean.”

*throws note on the ground and walks away*

---

And that is it. THAT is how my dear daughter decided to put the turd icing on top of the crap cake that is July. To say that the Hansens have been busy is a COMPLETE understatement (I know, I know…preaching to the choir, right?!) But seriously…if your body can instantly fall asleep once it hits the taco pillow you brought home from Vegas, then you know that you are worn down. Yes, that’s right…I BOUGHT A TACO PILLOW AND CARRIED IT HOME FROM VEGAS. I regret nothing…

I mean, we have a king sized Tempurpedic bed in our room and my body would rather sleep on a taco pillow on the couch rather than tackling the two flights of stairs that stand between me and that king sized square of heaven. Although, that taco IS really soft…..and fluffy….and ergonomically perfect for my neck….but I digress.

(PS. the innuendos here are astoundingly hilarious. Don’t say you didn’t think it… Fluffy. Taco. Pillow.)

So in true “bad things come in three(hundred)s” fashion, my actual house decided to get in on the action and fill my basement with approximately 4 inches of water. THANKS, HOUSE. NOW I HAVE TO TAKE A FRIGGEN PADDLE BOAT ACROSS THE TOY ROOM JUST TO GET MY BUNDT PAN FROM THE STORAGE ROOM. cool. ALL I WANTED WAS A BUNDT!

It can always be worse. I know this. But a swimming pool for a basement on top of the death of my Grandma, working a million hours a week, sick children, having to file quarterly taxes for two businesses in the throes of switching computer programs, and having those taxes be due on the same days as many various social obligations for both my children and myself, is enough to get my blood pressure higher than Snoop D-O-Double-G.

SO, I decided to attempt to make this a learning experience for my three year old.

HELP. It’s time for her to really learn how to help out around the house. 

Sure, she cleans the living room from time to time (usually in a back-handed attempt to get a pull on the ‘ole M&M slot machine that ALSO made it’s way home from Vegas. I flippin’ love Vegas.) Or we will make her pick up her toys or clothes that are scattered around like tiny foot grenades. But she has never really had to get down and dirty and help me clean a disgusting, water-logged toy room before. So the time is now, kid. GET EXCITED. I know I am. *makes fart noise with my mouth*

At this point, the adults have already cleared the entire contents of our basement and taken them up in to the garage and front yard (Sorry neighbors, see my facebook post for apology gifts) and have drained and dried the basement floors. All I was asking of Everlee was to help me put the toy room back together and re-lay the foam squares that cover the floor. Easy enough, right? WRONG.

It started off rough right from the get-go. The incessant whining and piddle-farting around the basement just about sent me to a ‘Mommy Wine Timeout’ right there at 11 am on a Sunday. I’m confident that God would totally understand and side with me on that one. When I asked her to gather the foam blocks and hand them to me so I could lay them, I got “I don’t want to.” When I asked her to do the fun part and gather the foam letters and numbers and put them back in the squares they came from, I got “Ugh, Mom, you always make me do horrible things!” When I asked her to take her Doc McStuffins cell phone and set it on the new shelving we installed, she picked up her cell phone and ‘called’ Grandma to tell her how mean of a mom I am and how SHE MUST BE PICKED UP! All of these resulting in firm death stares and reprimanding by yours truly.

By now I was more exhausted from trying to make her help me than I was ACTUALLY putting the basement back together. She was getting toys out to play with, knocking over boxes I had stacked, eating fake plastic chicken wings, throwing tennis string across the basement, and tearing through the garbage piles with a big plastic crocodile on wheels. Having her there to ‘help’ me was the equivalent of going to the zoo, wrangling a baby chimpanzee from it’s habitat with my bare hands, strapping him in to a car seat, and setting him loose in my house. Those two scenerios ARE THE SAME DAMN THING.

When I told Everlee that in order to stay in the basement she would need to help me, OR she had to go upstairs and leave me to get my work done, she insisted she would help. She “didn’t want to go upstairs by herself and play with Leyton who probably pooped his pants and smells like a big turd”. (I can’t really blame her here. She was probably right.) The one time she actually did go upstairs was also the time she brought me that “super nice note” about NOT CLEANING that I shared earlier. So, in the angriest voice I could possibly muster, I demanded she grab some toys from upstairs and bring them down to put away.

So she did. She went upstairs without a word. I should have known this would not be as easy as I first thought. Once I heard her tiny body sliding down each stair slowly one by one, I decided I needed to go up and check on what the hell was happening in my house.

 

This. This was happening. She found a STUPID A** PURPLE WIG AND PUT IT ON AND THEN FOUND A STUPID A** PUMPKIN STICK THING AND DIDN’T BRING ONE DAMN TOY DOWN TO PUT AWAY AND WAS GIGGLING LIKE A FRIGGEN HYENA. Wtf kid, help me! THIS IS NOT HELPFUL! Funny.. but NOT HELPFUL.

And as I stifled my laughter and continued to enforce some structure and life skills in to my nutjob kid, I realized that this lesson is going to be a hard one for her to learn. She is simply too smart and knows exactly how to buy a few minutes of manipulated time. But NO, Everlee, YOU DO NOT WIN. Where do you think you learned that manipulation from? That’s right, Big Mama Ali! So get downstairs. And bring the damn purple wig, I have just the box for that!

Attempt #78 ended as follows:

 

ARE YOU EVER-LOVING KIDDING ME? A GIRAFFE COSTUME? That sure as hell doesn’t look like the seven dwarfs that I asked you to bring down, CHILD! And stop peeking at me from behind the wall, that won’t protect you from the mom rage (and giggles) that are about to ensue! Down the stairs you go, and wear the giraffe costume because it’s damn funny!

*Two hours later*

I am sitting on the sofa, just moments away from passing out face first on the newly-laid foam floor. Everlee is taking toys OFF of the shelves to play with while I demand she leave them be. The garage and front yard still look like a hillbilly yard sale. But we FINALLY have a decent looking, DRY basement again. And after we drag our limp legs up the stairs and in to the kitchen, THIS happens:

She’s washing dishes. She’s washing dishes! SHE’S MOTHER-FREAKING WASHING DISHES WITHOUT PROMPT, WHINE, OR CRY! I am the master of the universe!!

Mom for the win, bitches. MOM FOR THE WIN.