The image above is from www.shitmykidsruined.com Yes, there’s an entire site dedicated to this.
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Every time my mom visits my house, she asks the same question.
“When are you going to get new furniture?”
Her question annoys me about as much as the crayon scribbles on my daughter’s bedroom walls.
I refuse to buy anything new — or really nice for that matter.
My three little terrors (and I say that with love) have ruined my gorgeous home.
The glass panel on the hutch is missing — and for good reason or so says my 9-year-old. Spider-Man shot across the living room and accidentally smashed into it.
“It’s like the commercial with the birds,” he explained. “He didn’t see it coming… and then BAM. He went down.”
Uh, so did the glass now shattered across the wooden floor.
The big screen TV has scribbles and initials carved into it.
“I didn’t do it.” “Me neither.”
Really? The letters “B” and a wonky”A” just so happened to appear overnight.
Ninjas. Yep. Those sneaky ninjas must have done it.
My once formal couches that were designated for guest tooshies only now wear juice-stained badges.
Is it really a couch if no one can sit on it?
Now that they’ve been colored on and jumped off, my answer: Yes. Oh, heck yeah. I regret ripping the factory plastic off of them.
And I won’t even begin to go into the time my kids “made it snow” in my bedroom — as if the Larry the Cable Guy apology was enough.
So, I’ll continue to give my mother the same response: Nope. Not going to do it.
I will not buy new furniture Sam-I-Am. I will not buy a sofa or lamp. Not in a box. Not if it came with an adorable fox.
I’ll wait. I’ll be patient. Once the kids get old enough to learn how to sit on them properly I might entertain the idea.
Accidents happen. I get it.
I remember the shaggy blue couches my mom had when we were younger. When she finally upgraded to a tapestry-styled sofa, we weren’t allowed near it. After the backsides started to sag, she bought a green-and-white striped set. Again, we sat on the floor an arms length from them.
But when she wasn’t around, we Superman-ed off those hideous stripes. Wielding solo cups filled to the brim with Kool-Aid, we’d toasted to good times which were often followed by pillow fights. Decorative pillows? Ha!
OK. So may be I’m exaggerating about the toast, but lord knows we had good times. And, of course, drinks were spilled.
The inevitable happens. Sofas get sat on.
It’s apparent that this house (like my mom’s) is being lived in, and I’m loving that.
But I’ll admit that I was tickled with joy this past Christmas when my sister and her significant other gave me a book titled “Sh*t My Kids Ruined”.
Finally, I thought. Someone gets me.
The book is a gallery of crapped-up possessions, decimated laptops, yogurt-stained lamp shades, warped cabinet doors and broken window blinds (Yep, I have those too.)
The author, Julie Haas Brophy, is a genius. She started a blog “Sh*t My Kids Ruined” then wrote a book in which parents across the country shared their own kid-destructions.
A sampling of “Sh*t My Kids Ruined” posts:
Maybe one day, I’ll have nice things.
But from the looks of the toys littered in my living room and the marker smeared across my toddler’s face, that day won’t be today.
A few related links:
Amy Grace: A first day of school story he’ll never forget
Judy Daniell: My son’s beautiful disasters
Chris Donnelly: My son has a mustache problem
Cat Koehler: A mess for mommy
Laugh with us. Tell us about the stuff your kids have ruined throughout the years.
Are you a blogger? Link your kid-destruction stories below.
