Bad Mother Chronicles, part 1087

(I wrote this a few weeks ago. Although it probably could have happened today, if we weren't having Ice-ocalypse. Which seems pretty lame compared to the Kansas City ice storm of 2002, but I'm still glad I don't have to go anywhere.)

This morning I told my kids not to touch my shit.

Seriously.

It was like I was talking to my freaky freshman year roommate and her even freakier boyfriend. They liked my make-up a lot. And that's not what made them freaky. But anyway, it's probably not appropriate to talk to your children the way you once talked to drug addicts. Although they did hide my shoes.

We were hurrying out the door to take Ironflower to school, but I have been busy preparing for a trip (note to potential thieves: we're having a housesitter. With a Rottweiler.)  and trying to complete a million tasks and Hugmonkey has a cold. So I'm a little stressed. I run to the top of the stairs, where I KNOW I left my shoes and they are not there. Since it always takes 10 minutes longer than I expect to get all the children ready for the cold, we are always in a hurry. But if you think I'm leaving my house without my warm shoes when it's 20 degrees outside, you don't know how deeply I've chosen comfort over cuteness.

I would make Tim Gunn cry.

So, I wanted my ugly, warm, snow resistant Merrells. But they were not where I had left them. Nor were they nearby as if they had been kicked aside casually during one of the new games that involve running and screaming. They were not in my room. They were not by the door.

I called to the squabbling children (twice) and asked them if they had seen my shoes. I should have known something was up when they came upstairs to "help" me look. To them, looking for something usually amounts to a quick glance around the room. But this time they actually looked in several rooms. I began to get suspicious.

Finally they admitted to playing with my shoes.

And not remembering where they left them.

"What on earth were you even playing with my shoes for? Were you playing dress up?" I asked. Did I mention that these are ugly but functional Merrells? I mean, they're not typical dress up attire. Unless you're pretending to be hippies of questionable sexuality or something. But it seems my children, even though we have provided them with enough toys to open a small toy store, thought tossing my shoes around would be fun.

"Please leave my shoes alone," I said politely. They nodded. Then I went to find my purse. Which had been opened. By someone with sticky hands.

"If you want something from Mommy's purse, please ask. It's private," I explained. They nodded. Then I went to find my hat. Which was missing. Each child blamed another child. I gave up on it.

Last came the keys. "Don't move the keys, kids. Mommy keeps things in a certain place so she can always find them, " I may have been able to hold it together had not the oldest thought to pipe in.

"But we were playing and we needed keys and.. . ."

That's when I remembered having to go to Housing to get a new key because the roommate and her boyfriend had "borrowed" mine from my desk, without permission, and then lost it. It took about 7 hours.

"Just don't touch my shit, guys." We all stared at each other. "I mean, um, don't touch Mommy's stuff without permission, okay? It makes us late when I can't find it and it gives me flashbacks to the worst things about college." They nodded hesitantly, possibly waiting to see if would swear more.

I hung my head in shame and headed out the door.