With Daddy out of town for a few days, now might be a good time to reinforce the house rules, as you have taken his absence to mean that we have descended into some base form of anarchy. Allow me to refresh your memories:
1. The floor is not a garbage can. It also also neither a hamper nor a compost pile. Also, and I know this is going to sound completely counter-intuitive, but the broom is not a toy. You have an actual toy broom. Please use that if you must insist on “helping” to clean the floor, which, by the way, would be fine if you would just stop throwing all your shit on it.
2. Doughnuts are not for dinner. They never have been before, so you have no reason to believe that they will be now that Daddy is gone, as if Daddy was the one thing holding you back from injecting sugar directly into your veins. We don’t even have any doughnuts, so I’m not sure where you thought I was going to conjure these mythical doughnuts from. Also not viable options for dinner:
- Ice cream
- “Trail mix” that you create yourself by dumping all of the bags in the pantry into a giant bowl and smashing the contents up with your unwashed palms (see above picture)
- Salt packets
- Literally just gum
3. I don’t care that it’s warm outside; you cannot go out without pants on. I know we have a lax dress code around here. But there is a difference between cute and sassy indoor nudity, and Welp, Time to Call the Cops outdoor nudity. I applaud you for at least thinking to put on your boots, but you look like a baby prostitute and I am not going to the slammer because you need to commune with the elements. With your butt out.
4. Your bed is your bed. My bed is my bed. These two beds are mutually exclusive. Just because Daddy isn’t here doesn’t mean that I am suddenly lonely and cold in the middle of the night and need you to come wedge your feet into the small of my back and attempt to make them pop out through my belly button. Daddy doesn’t do that, and you shouldn’t, either. And before you even ask,
5. No, I do not want to watch Mutt and Stuff at 3 in the morning. Or Shimmer and Shine. Or any of the weird Canadian children’s shows you keep finding on Netflix, like My Big Big Friend or Harry and His Bucket Full of Dinosaurs. Those shows are lame, and you are lame for wanting to watch them at 3 in the morning.
6. And I cannot stress this one enough, only poop in approved poop receptacles. Your diaper is fine. The toilet is fine. I guess outside is fine, if you manage to make your pantsless escape into the fenced-in backyard. But under no circumstances should you poop in any unauthorized areas, including, but not limited to, the basement stairs and the mini trampoline. Other people use these stairs and this trampoline. And now other people will never be able to do so again without wondering if at least a microscopic amount of leftover feces has lodged itself onto her sock, no matter how slash and burn one might be with the application of Clorox.
I really don’t think these rules are unreasonable, and I think you’ll find that we all have a more pleasant home experience when they are adhered to. Should you have any questions or concerns, please feel free to scream them at top volume from the backseat of the car while also explaining how much you don’t love me anymore.