CRASH

so i have barely woken up and am in the bathroom.  the kids have spent most of the weekend playing “clubhouse” in our closet.  (yes, the same closet that the 9yo ran away to live in.  clearly our closet is fascinating beyond what i can see.)  i sit down and then i hear CRASH from the closet.  half naked, i jump up and throw open the door in time to see the back wire rack shelving that 1/3 of our clothes are on has come out of the wall and nearly landed on the kids.  9yo is crying about her toe, but 6yo is relatively calm.  apparently 9yo was trying to climb up on a bench/storage box we have in there and held onto the rack to pull her 65+ lb self up on it.  thankfully no one was hurt, but our closet is wrecked and daddy – who has done an awesome job of taking care of the kids while i was out of town – now has to spend the day fixing the rack.

 

so how was YOUR morning?  *sigh*

morning at my house

after waking me up indirectly by sneaking into my room and whisper arguing over who did what to whom at any ungodly hour (which prompted me to bellow at them to get out), the kids just informed me while i was eating breakfast that they have taken almost all the clothes out of 9yo’s closet and put virtually every pillow and beanbag  and half the stuffed animals (we have about 3000 in our house) in there to create “Camp Fuzzy.”

9yo:  if you need us, mama, you know where to find us – CAMP FUZZY!

20140308_095849

(please note that the closet is actually quite wide, so the full effect is lost in a picture.)

this would be eternally cute save the fact that i am entirely sure they will never put all of this stuff back and, per our normal rules and my earlier directions, this will lead me to have to:  (a)  confiscate all of my 9yo’s clothes;  (b) tell them they can’t go to the carnival today;   and (c) listen to inordinate amounts of screaming, crying, and temper tantrums as a result of (a) and (b).  vive la motherhood.  [collapses on desk]

it’s too early for this

hadn’t even gotten breakfast half cooked when i hear wailing from 8 yo.  i rush in, and she is screaming that she hurt her knee and toes on the rock em’ sock ’em robot game.  she is smushed into a tiny space in her crowded-with-junk closet between a large box, her hanging clothes holder, and a small rocking chair.  i pull her out and put her on the bed and ask her what she was doing in there.  she says she needed privacy to get dressed so she was dressing in her closet.  i ask why she couldn’t just close the door to her room.  she stares at me blankly.  *sigh*

moving on out

8yo directed us to index cards on her bedroom door, then headed to the other side of the house with a backpack. when we looked, there were cards saying that she had relocated to another room for several days, and that it was OK for us to cry. she signed it love, your beloved daughter. she also had a sign that her room is now “bell beach.”

apparently she is now residing in our closet.