I Think My Kids Are Conspiring To Make Me Lose My Sh*t


“Know thine enemy” If you want to truly conquer your opponent, you need to know them. Understand them. See what makes them tick.

You know who knows me? My kids.


My kids have seen me in every aspect of my day. From my morning pajamas all the way to my nighttime pajamas, my children see me in all my most vulnerable points.

You see, they know me. And I’m pretty sure they are conspiring to make me lose my shit.

Every morning they must call a meeting to order where they discuss the progression of the day’s insanity, and choose roles and duties for each. The little one will clog the toilet, then the older one will trash his room.

They will rise into a crescendo of chasing each other around the house, stopping only to break my valuables and holler for snacks. I bet they high five over the table, knocking over their juice.

While they are having this meeting, I’m washing my face. I look into my own eyes and say today, today will be different. They hear me and giggle, eager to prove me wrong.

I think my kids are conspiring to make me lose my shit.

The other day at the park I swear I heard them swapping secrets with a red headed baby that was eating a cheesestring. I could see their adorable little faces glancing over, as they quietly brainstormed what fresh hell to unleash upon me.

It was the first time they quietly did anything. They came home with a bag of new tricks.

While I’m picking up clumps of blueberries off my hardwood floor I can see them in the corner playing. This is a clever ruse, but one that I recognize all the same. They are organizing the day’s chaos, laid out in code, with a collection of children’s blocks.

I know it sounds crazy, and I know it’s insane, but you must believe I’m serious when I say they’re conspiring to make me lose my shit! There are moments when the chaos is simply too much for there to be any other explanation. I would argue my case further, but one has just peed on the floor and the other just drew on the wall.

At the end of the day, I’m trying to be a positive person, and I yearn to see the best.

Should I be happy that I mean so much to them that I am worth all these efforts? Perhaps all this comraderie is perfect for their development. Maybe I’ll ask a child psychologist when I’m done picking gum off my couch.

I think my kids are conspiring to make me lose my shit. I’m almost certain. And if I ever get more than 2 minutes to myself between putting out fires, maybe I can make a good enough argument that will convince you too.


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