They spend way too long in the shower considering their hands are still vibrantly colored from art class three days ago.
I've bitten back countless four letter words from the indescribable pain of discarded Legos meeting soft arches.
They haven't put their laundry away properly since 1943.
There is a defined trail of sunflower seeds leading down the hall -- though no one did it.
The tears I wade through to get homework completed correctly could drown a country. A mountainous country. A mountainous country on Mars.
Their shoes cost more than half my closet.
Their bathroom floor hasn't been dry in months.
They clog toilets and peel paint and leave lights on.
There are fingerprints on every wall of my house four feet up from the crumb covered floor.
Socks stuffed between couch cushions and twisted jeans behind dressers reveal themselves to my nose before they reach my eyes.
Pink toothpaste should just be the official color of their sink.
And, if I won the lottery tomorrow, my luck factor won't have increased an inch.
This is the life no one tells you to aim for. But they should. This is the life.
And I'm grateful for every headache, every sleepless night, every slammed door. I'm grateful it's my house they're destroying. It's my heart they're filling.
Damn, I'm a lucky one.
