I imagine many of you chose your property carefully, whether it be rental or bought. Was it the character features? The wide, spacious, open plan living? The sumptuous carpets or solid hardwood floors? The sleek kitchen or modern, trendy bathroom? Do you like your furnishings, carefully selected and placed? The textures, the finish, the niknaks?
Now imagine it all, every single item, absolutely plastered in a variety of bodily fluids and regurgitated food. Patches of unidentified crust that just won’t shift. This is the reality of sharing a house with kids.
Nothing is sacred. Every item I own is fingered, examined, secreted away in the doll house, or perhaps a shoe. Drawers are emptied, books no longer have covers and jewelry is broken. My vase can now only face one direction, to conceal the dried brown glue holding it together. Every seat cushion, rug and bed has been urinated and/or crapped on.
Sure, I expected the drill holes from baby gates and the occasional pair of soiled trousers soaking in the basin. But the jam hand prints, the weetabix cement, the nodules of playdough on the carpet, the shredded kitchen roll, the smell of spoiled milk on fabric, the snot like slugs trails, spoons behind radiators, biro on the wooden floor, ink stamps on the furniture, flipping mattresses…you cannot comprehend how infuriating it will all be.
I’m afraid this isn’t going to end with a sentimental paragraph about how worth it it all is, that material things can be replaced but a child is precious. I’m just thankful that Ikea is cheap.
