Found in my living room: one Lego truck, a set of cards, a computer game, three trucks, a matchbox car and a bunch of old birthday cards. Behind the couch there is a mass of toys that includes a wooden sword and cymbals. There are blocks rejected by my toddler nephew and there perched on the table is an open bag of mini marshmallows.
I catalogue these items because this is what my living room looks like on a good day and because I want to record the fact that these marshmallows are the final blow, the coup de grace, the sign that I have lost not just the battle but the war.
The marshmallows are a sign that my children are out of control and have taken matters into their own hands, climbing up to formerly unreachable shelves and pulling down sticky, coagulated, white candy that only a desperate, sweet-loving child who is starved by his parent could crave.
The marshmallows mean that the chaos in my house has reached such a level that even as I go about the motions of doing battle each day: straightening out pillows and removing dirty socks, I am still so beaten down, so defeated that I no doubt saw that bag of marshmallows and let it go. "So what?" I thought to myself. "So there's a bag of marshmallows sitting in the living room? It could be worse! It cold be Cheese Doodles.
But I will live to fight another day. Indeed, I will take a nap and return to battle this very day. And some day, I vow, as God is my witness, the Legos will be vanquished from my living room. The toys shall be banished from the land of the adults and no bag of marshmallows will be allowed to stand.
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