They call me The Thrower Away-er. I can look upon the playroom, and not flinch. I can take on Tinker Toys and Lego in one fell swoop. Toys never know what hit them- instead, finding themselves sacked, bagged and tagged for the curb. Thwap! Zing! Zow! Take that, small sharp plastic man! I am Mama, hear me Roar!
It has to happen. It’s just necessary. In a mere four days, the Hoover Dam of toys is going to break and our innocent little home will be flooded with a tsunami of new, small, tiny, choke-able, plastic pieces. Tiny pieces I will step on in the middle of the night, and curse the name of Fisher Price. Minuscule pieces that will go missing, bringing on a torrent of tear and hair-wrenching agony.
Breaking out the evil that is Caillou, I put on the spawn’s Christmas special, and watched the Monkeys fall under the spell. Quietly, I tip-toed downstairs, three lawn and leaf bags in my clenched mama fists- ready to do the dirty work. I. Am. Merciless.
One hour later, nerves twitching from listening to Caillou’s whine, I climbed the stairs, triumphant.
“What’s that mama? What’s in the bags?” the boys curiously examine my stretched, knotted, black plastic sacks- “Nothing, just some trash that needed taking out- Hey, how was Caillou?” I brightly and deceptively divert their little 3 second attention spans back to the Caillou crack on the screen.
I am the Thrower-Awayer. Nothing is safe. I do not flinch in the face of chaos. I. Am. MAMA.