A week or so back Wife and I were cleaning upstairs while the kiddos dumped out all their toys in the basement. A typical Tuesday. Of course we check on them often and on my rounds I discovered this:
In case it’s not immediately obvious, the kids got into an industrial supply of glitter and went. to. town. Here’s the same photo marked up where we found (and can still find) this horrible, horrible stuff:
Astute readers will note substantial collections in shoes, and all over Thing2. What’s most unfortunate is where the glitter is not: in its glitter containers (not marked, but scattered throughout) or in the two giant, wide-open baskets designated for such activities.
To appreciate the gravity of this you must understand that I h-a-t-e glitter. Passionately. If an organization existed with the sole objective of outlawing glitter, I would donate both time and money to the cause.
(jump to 3:00)
Upon discovering the horror in my basement, I uttered a single expletive, followed by the undo code “peanutbutter” to wipe it from the children’s memory and immediately commanded wife to stay upstairs and ignore the preceding commotion. Obviously that didn’t work as I have no such power. Thing1 was lucky to hit the sweet spot on the shock curve:
(this is inverted because I messed up and didn’t want to start over)
Don’t get me wrong—we made her (help) clean it up and that led to a lot of tears—but I really wasn’t as angry with this whole situation as I would have predicted. That’s the life lesson, I guess. After replacing the upstairs carpet because of the great paint-everywhere-even-on-the-dog-omg-are-you-kidding incident of 2010 (featured on shitmykidsruined.com), a bucket of glitter’s just not so bad.
But glitter is banned from my home. I’m not a fool.