10 (Plus 1) Ways My Kids Are Slowly Breaking Me (And Honestly, I’m Too Tired to Put Up a Fight)

I love my kids. I really do. But lately, I’ve found myself staring wistfully at my friends who have little girls—quietly coloring at the table, singing sweetly to their dolls—and wondering what my life would be like if I’d had a girl. A life of shopping, visits to the nail salon, those cute dresses, and maybe… just maybe… less yelling about bodily functions.

Instead, I live in a frat house for preschoolers. Two boys (ages 4 and 5), hellbent on turning every moment into a wrestling match, comedy show, or emotional hostage situation.

Here’s a list of their current favorite activities that are slowly but surely breaking me:

1. “Hey, Toots”
After overhearing his 80 year old grandfather reference the word in a joke, my five-year-old has decided my new name is Toots. As in, “Hey, Toots, can you get me some Goldfish?” Like I’m a diner waitress working the graveyard shift in 1954.

2. The Slow, Sarcastic “Fine”
He’s also perfected saying fine in a slow, exaggerated drawl with the emotional energy of a world-weary teenager. Except he’s five. And wearing Spiderman Underoos.

3. The Toothbrush Mosh Pit
Every night, while I’m doing dishes, both boys crowd behind me to “brush their teeth.” Only “brushing” actually means pacing in tight circles, karate-kicking each other, and bumping into me repeatedly like little minions on a sugar high. The other night, one of them was so busy, he dropped the electric toothbrush and it managed to find it’s way to the very back of the oven range (took my husband 20 minutes to get it out, while it incessantly vibrated against steel.

4. FaceTime Comedy Hour
When they FaceTime their cousin or an aunt and uncle, they believe it’s their time to shine. The routine? Yelling “poop” and every possible variation (poopie, poopster, poop-a-saurus rex) in a continuous loop like they’re auditioning for a toddler Netflix special.

5. The Referee Life
I am the sole referee for every micro-aggression:

• “Maxwell touched my toy without asking!”

• “Franco won’t give me space!”

• “MAXWELL LOOKED AT ME WITH HIS EYES.”

  When I calmly remind them snitches get stitches or stop crying wolf, they stare blankly at me like I’m speaking in Charlie Brown’s mom voice: “wah wah wah wah wah.” and then return to their long list of complaints.

6. The Dad Filter
It doesn’t matter if their father is sitting six inches away and staring directly at them. Every single question, request, and existential crisis is funneled straight to me—even if I’m in another room actively trying to hide.

7. Creepy Cling-On Behavior
They are obsessed with touching me in ways that violate every law of personal space. Hands up my shirt. Random face grabs. Heads jammed into my armpit like it’s a designated pillow. It’s… unsettling.

8. “God Damnit, Mom”
One time—ONE TIME—I dropped an entire bag of groceries in the garage and yelled, “God damnit.” My kids have since turned this into a full-scale psychological experiment, randomly asking, “Is damnit a bad word?” before trying out variations like gamit, bamit, and shammit—giggling like tiny evil geniuses every time I flinch. And because I once (quietly, under my breath) called my 5-year-old an idiot while he tried mopping up a gallon of water with two half-sheet paper towels, they’ve made it their mission to announce to anyone who will listen that “Mom called us idiots.” And now, anytime we’re in public, they’ll casually point at strangers and say, “That guy’s an idiot!” I revert back to the veiled shallow threats, and they keep coming back for more!

9. The Bedtime Rumble
Bedtime used to be a calm, sweet moment: snuggles, soft voices, watching old videos of them as babies. Now? It’s a full-on wrestling match with bonus headbanging. They leap from bed to bed, body slam each other (and sometimes me), and thrash around like they’re at a Guns N’ Roses reunion tour while I stand there hissing empty threats because I’ve got nothing left in the tank.

10. The Jackson Pollock Toy Method
The house is a museum of chaos. Legos, Hot Wheels, random camp crafts—sprawled everywhere. I’ve literally watched them grab an entire bin of toys and hurl it across the room like they’re channeling Jackson Pollock mid-masterpiece. Apparently, if toys aren’t artistically scattered across every square inch of the floor, the play session isn’t complete.

(Plus 1): Professional Butt Wiper
My four-year-old hasn’t quite mastered the clean wipe, so every time he’s done in the bathroom he screams at the top of his lungs: “MOM! I’M DONE!!!!!” Like I’m a first responder to a Code Brown.

Here’s the kicker—my loving husband could be standing directly outside the bathroom door, doing absolutely nothing, and still… nothing. He vanishes like a magician mid-act. Meanwhile, I’m in another room mid-task, suddenly being summoned like a lowly servant in the royal court of Tiny Butts.

So for the record… I’m fine. Totally fine. Just hiding in the pantry, whispering  “say mom one more time…”, quietly eating stale tortilla chips straight from the bag, and wondering how early is too early to open wine.

Can anyone else relate? Or am I alone in my full-time role as diner waitress/toothbrush referee/WWE manager/professional butt wiper?