All That Glitters Is...PURE EEEVIIIILLLL!!!!

I have a house full of children who are all, apparently, in the "creative" phases of life. They love to generate stuff, and lots of it. If it involves markers, crayons, paintbrushes, beads, fabric, or wood, my children (minus Lucas) are all over it like the mustard to the ham. Oh, and glue, too. Let's not forget the glue.

I'm not gonna lie. I won't be winning any mother-of-the-year awards any time soon. I don't love craft projects so much. When my oldest daughter screeched the words, "Mommy! I found the craft box in the garage!" the other day, I felt the acid churning in my stomach. I thought I had stacked an adequate number of empty boxes on top of it when we moved in 10 months ago. Guess not. Drat.

Our beloved, dreaded craft box contains all of the above mentioned items and then some, plus a bonus: GLITTER. I was going to use an exclamation point there, but that would indicate some excitement or enthusiasm on my part. I don't like glitter. To quote a flair button on a friend's Facebook page, "Glitter is the herpes of craft supplies." I don't feel the need to elaborate on that. It stands on its own.

In a world where I have approximately four to five hours every night at home to cook, do laundry, pick up toys, clean up messes, post to my blog (uh huh, that's a have-to), exercise, do dishes, give baths, help with homework, run errands, cuddle my kids, change diapers, and perform countless other not-so-trivial tasks, the sight of glitter tubes and paint containers emerging from the craft box is enough to send me straight to my room with an Ambien-laced cup of chamomile.

But...

I reeeeeally want that mother-of-the-year award. This is my year. I can feel it.

So I fake the glitter love, for their sakes. I watch them work their sparkly magic, my countertops and floors acting as the unwilling canvas for their masterpieces. Some of it even ends up on the hundreds of sheets of plain white paper that they kipe from my printer.

Ever tried to extract glitter from linoleum? Or a five-year-old's scalp? Don't bother.