A few weeks ago, I spent the afternoon building a train track out of cardboard boxes. My boys and I constructed a cereal box train station and a nursery water-jug tunnel. We even had an Easy Mac roundhouse. To say that I was pleased with myself is an understatement. I had visions of grandeur.

I will be featured in Disney’s Family Fun Magazine.

I am teaching my children to make sustainable small-carbon footprint toys.

I am going to get an award.

I am the mother of the year.

About ten minutes after creating a makeshift bridge from little plastic baby food containers, my three-year-old, aka: Captain Destructo, pummeled the entire thing—he stepped on our poor little train station, ripped up the railroad crossing sign I had painstakingly made out of ribbon, and tore the entire train track into unrecognizable pieces.

If the opposite of war isn’t peace, but creation, then my home is filled with war. Destruction is one of the main playtime events. No tea parties, no fashion shows, no pedicures. We build towers and forts and then we demolish them and do it all over again.

After all, it’s as much fun to destroy a thing as it is to create it—especially for three boys.

Yesterday my husband preached a wonderful sermon on James two and the sin of favoritism within the church. He said, ‎”The God of the Bible actually chooses the poor. Anyone associated with the God of the Bible will inevitably do the same.”

He talked about classism, racism, ageism, etc…stating that what makes things an ‘ism’ is when we systematically judge others based on external appearances.

He used a humorous example from our family, explaining that we are a house divided. 

Some of my family members believe that couch cushions and decorative pillows are meant to be used for wars and fort-building. 

Then, there is ME (the demure and dignified family member) who believes they are meant to stay on the couches. And when both sides dig our heels in (and we do), we judge each other by our own standards.

Now, I got a lot of flack after church yesterday…many a comment (mostly from men). Come on, Aubrey couch cushions are meant for fort-building! Wow, you really don’t let them do that?  I thought you were a fun mom.

I’d like to set the record straight.

I spent this morning in a Princess Leia wig, running around the house chasing after Darth Vader and Boba Fett. My house is covered in forts, secret hideouts, Legos, monster trucks, and large plastic bugs. When I opened my bathroom drawer this morning to pull out a hairbrush, I found three Hot Wheels cars. As we already know, my favorite living room rug is ruined.

So, since testosterone outnumbers me four to one, would I like to have some semblance of a pretty home? Would I like to keep the few pillows, purchased with love from World Market, safe from the confines of stinky feet, farts, and utter destruction? Indeed, I would.

Boba Fett and My Pillows
Recently, I initiated “Gentleman’s Dinner.” I am attempting to teach my boys table manners. Bootys in chairs. Say please and thank you. No butt or potty talk (I realize I am not the best example). 

It’s not a hopeless cause, but I am definitely preparing for the day when they rebel, We don’t wanna be gentlemen!

James two reminds us to love our neighbors as ourselves, and at the end of the day when I am putting decorative pillows back in their place for the thousandth time, I know that I have loved and served my boys. 
I have a family who considers my house theirs. My heart, theirs. They believe that they can leave their shoes on the floor, step all over the cardboard train table, and throw couch cushions around like hand grenades.

I am grateful. 

At the same time if a nanny or house cleaning service wanted to show me a little favoristim (or even present me with the aforementioned award), I definitely wouldn’t complain. 

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