No touchy the mommy’s stuffy

I become more like my mother every day. And I mean it in that way that makes me kinda shudder. The particular way I am referring to (well, today anyway) is the mom who freaks out when her kids touch her stuff. Like, my stapler. Or my hand mirror. Or my ruler. Or anything.

I can still remember rolling my eyes a bit when my mom would be all up in my face about using something of hers a) without asking and b) without returning it.

Seesh. Weren’t they SUPPOSED to be used? Not sitting in a drawer, well-organized all day? It seemed a teensy-weensy bit over the top, in my kid opinion. I mean, honestly, I just borrowed them for a minute (which turned into days when I didn’t put them back) and they were just scissors!

But now, I know. They are never ‘just scissors’. They are the good scissors. The ones that are sharp enough to cut anything without hassle. And the ones that the mommy always knows where they are (which is why they get borrowed—no one can find the other 11 pairs of household scissors). The mommy uses them and she puts them back. Where.they.belong.

Then, NotMe borrows them, or her sister IDidntDoIt, and Mommy never finds them again.
Which leads to me getting all up in my kids’ faces to explain how we DON’T.TOUCH.MOMMY (dearest)’s.THINGS.WITHOUT.ASKING.

This is how items get attacked by the label maker with labels like “Property of Mom” or “Do NOT Touch! Yes, this means YOU!”

When, oh, when did I become this mother? The one who wanted to find her stuff? And in good condition? And where she left it?

No touchy my stuffy. Thankseversomuch.
Love, Your Totally Unreasonable Mom

© 2010, melissa caddell. All rights reserved. If you steal my stuff, I will also be really, really mad.