I’ll be the first to admit I’m somewhat klutzy, it runs in the family. It’s rare though that I actually ruin anything nice. I have noticed since having a child though, that the old adage “This is why we can’t have nice things” has really come home to roost.
Here are just a few of the nice things that I had that have been pretty much ruined by a small person who shall remain nameless.
Oh, sofa my sofa. My favourite place in the house. Curled up, reading or telly watching or cuddling. Arse groove perfected during pregnancy (the additional weight really helped). Leather lovely and smooth and soft. Now it’s just gone to pot. The leather is scuffed and stained (the mug rings are *probably* my fault) There was that awful wee-and-vomit-simultaneously incident that leaked all down the gap. I find a months worth of manky crumbs down the back which even my henry hoover baulks at sucking up. It’s past its best and we are frankly too scared to buy a new one only to see it destroyed in similar style.
Not only have the springs gone due to the endless bouncing (don’t make me laugh – it’s not US bouncing the springs, chance would be a fine thing) but all my lovely bed linen has weird stains all over it. I was truly afraid at first as to what precisely the stains were, but I’m now 98.9% sure it’s chocolate rather than anything else unmentionable. My dreams of a Pinterest perfect bed, destroyed.
Yes, MY iPad, the one I hinted after for months and months and was jammy enough to finally get. It was so sleek and shiny. Now it’s encased in an unwieldy rubber contraption, which delights in making my cry when I’m just trying to squeeze the fucking thing back on the sodding tablet. The screen is a disgustingly crusty, sneeze splattered health hazard. It’s full of really crap games of park-the-boat and cross the road/get squashed apps. It’s never got any bloody battery left either. My phone isn’t much better since we got addicted to Pokemon.
My entire person seems to have been re-imagined as some sort of giant towel. Grubby hands wipe themselves down my trousers. A food-covered face is waist height, and regularly gets rubbed on my tops. Being a disorganised wench, I never have wipes or tissues on me, so I often have to resort to using my own sleeves to wipe away tears (or worse) So there’s no point in wearing nice things, I would have to spend my life running away shrieking “THIS ISN’T FROM PRIMARK, DON’T TOUCH ME!”
He used to be young and fun and handsome. Now he’s just gone a bit…withered…
Hahahaha, OK that last one is a joke (and a test to see if he ever actually reads anything that I write) but in fairness, little people do have a knack for wrecking everything they encounter (starting off with their mothers body parts!) What treasured possession have you had smashed in by a rampaging toddler? Have you been forced to relocate everything to a shelf at least 6 feet off the ground? Is it possible to have a perfect home and kids?
Face to favourite shirt splat happening in 5…4…3…
You can find other musings over on Mumzilla if you like…