Don’t touch my stuff. 

I like my own stuff. I don’t like when people touch it. By people I mean tiny humans with Heaven-knows-what on their hands.

What sets me off on rampages? Tiny humans refusing to give back my diet Dr. Pepper with extra vanilla after they want “dus a liddle sip.” Painting and doing “craps” (crafts) on my newly washed bed covers. We all remember the great Nail Polish Fiasco of 2015 that occurred just yesterday. Jumping on my bed which has FOUR loads of laundry freshly folded on it, which, by the way, creates ONE BIG PILE of unfolded laundry again. SHALL I continue?

This type of thing happens HOURLY in our house and is quickly followed by me telling these miniature-sized humans to not touch my stuff. Because that’s the rule here: Don’t touch mom’s stuff. Ask me if that rule is ever followed. I mean they’re one and three. So it doesn’t happen. A girl can dream.

Luckily, the Lord has given me a sense of humor, so I spend my day laughing at the messes usually. There are days (Hello, yesterday!) when I absolutely lose it. I mean LOSE it. (No. You’re not alone.) That’s why the good Lord gave usPioneer Woman: because we all need to relax and have something good to watch. So, if you’re surrounded by munchkin people who don’t get that the freshly cleaned bathroom is not the place to touch everything with hands covered in red fingerpaints, know that you’re not alone. So are the rest of us.

I’d like to tie in a bible verse right now, but my children are currently quiet, which means something is amiss. I must go now.

Read something encouraging out of your Bible and pretend I gave you some Godly Wisdom. 😉


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