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You ever notice how kids in March transform into these little minions? It's like clockwork. January, they're innocent, February, they're still picking their noses without a care in the world. But come March, it's like someone flips a switch, and suddenly they're on a mission to drive every parent insane. My kid, he turns into a pint-sized drill sergeant. "March, troops! We march to the kitchen for snacks! Move it, move it!" And if you don't comply, you're in for the meltdown of the century. It's like negotiating with a tiny dictator who's convinced he's the king of the playground.
And what's with the sudden obsession with parades? Every day in March feels like I'm stuck in the middle of a never-ending kiddie parade. I half expect them to start tossing candy and demanding I clap along to their off-key rendition of the ABCs.
Seems like March isn't just about the madness of basketball; it's about the madness of these miniature generals plotting a takeover of the living room.
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So, we've survived the march of the minions, only to be ambushed by the Ides of Homework. I don't remember signing up for this when I became a parent. Suddenly, my living room is a war zone of sharpened pencils, crumpled papers, and the occasional tear-stained math worksheet. And don't get me started on the science projects. Why do they always involve creating a model of the solar system? I can barely find my car keys in the morning, and now I'm expected to recreate the entire cosmos with a glue stick and some ping pong balls?
I tried to explain to my kid that I graduated years ago and I don't need to relive the stress of last-minute assignments. But no, apparently, I'm now the unwilling assistant in their quest for academic glory.
It's like March is the month when all the teachers collectively decide, "Let's see how far we can push the parents before they crack." Spoiler alert: We crack.
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You know that saying about March coming in like a lion and going out like a lamb? Well, it should be "coming in like a lion, going out like a herd of caffeinated squirrels." Because by the time spring fever hits, my kids have more energy than a nuclear power plant. They're bouncing off the walls like rubber balls on Red Bull. And God forbid you try to contain the madness; it's like telling a tornado to chill out for a bit. "You want me to sit quietly and read a book? Are you insane, Mom? It's March! The world is my playground, and I must conquer it!"
I swear, spring fever is like a contagious disease that only affects children. And there's no cure. You just have to ride it out, hoping you make it to April with your sanity intact.
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As if March wasn't already a carnival of chaos, there's this unspoken rule that it's also the time for the great spring cleaning rebellion. Suddenly, every toy, sock, and LEGO block that has been missing for months reappears, seeking refuge in the living room. I tell my kids, "Let's clean up, guys. It's time to declutter." And they look at me like I just suggested we trade our house for a cardboard box under the bridge. "But Mom, I need all 27 stuffed animals to survive. It's a zoo emergency!"
It's a battle of wills, and I'm convinced that my kids have been secretly studying military strategy to outwit me. The toys strategically position themselves in the most inconvenient places, forming an impenetrable fortress against the forces of order.
So here I am, caught in the crossfire of spring cleaning and the great rebellion, armed with a vacuum cleaner and a determination to restore some sense of order. May the odds be ever in my favor.
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