(A.K.A. Why My Sons Are Banned From Sam’s Club Until Further Notice)
by austininva
It started, as these things usually do, with a nap time gone wrong.
Now, “nap time” is one of those sacred parental traditions—like pizza night or “forgetting” what time Chucky Cheeses closes. It’s a moment of peace. A desperate gasp of air while drowning in toy shrapnel and snack wrappers. But peace, as history has taught us, is fragile.
So there I was, basking in the blissful silence of midday, convinced for a brief moment that I had won. Slayden and Logan were tied down in bed. Kara was in her room doing “quiet time,” which in Kara’s world means rearranging her dolls and horses by political affiliation.
Then… silence. But not peaceful silence. It was the eerie, ominous calm. The kind of silence that makes your dad-senses tingle. That “there’s either sleep or a felony in progress” kind of quiet.
I crept down the hallway, cracked open Kara’s door—and stopped cold.
There, in the epicenter of chaos, stood Slayden and Logan, knee-deep in what could only be described as the aftermath of a Charmin blizzard. The floor was covered in tissue. Toilet paper was draped across furniture like party streamers at a birthday party thrown by raccoons. A pillow had been mummified. Kara’s dollhouse was now fully insulated. It looked like someone had tried to host a winter wonderland festival using every single roll from the 48-count mega-pack of toilet paper I had just bought. The last one in stock. At any Sam’s Club within a 2-hour radius! During COVID!
This was wartime toilet paper. Black market levels of valuable. The golden fleece of the pandemic era. And it had just been sacrificed on the altar of “Nap time is boring.”
When I asked why, Logan blinked at me like I was the one with problems and said with all the sincerity in the world:
“Well… we were bored. And toilet paper is really fun.”
Slayden added, “We were making snow world. For Chickee.” (One of Kara’s stuffed animals.)
I stared at them. They stared at me. The snow world stared back.
Now, let’s talk about the cleanup.
Do you know how hard it is to vacuum up toilet paper snow? You can’t. It just clogs the vacuum like a backed-up toilet on Thanksgiving, when you had to rely on Chinese take-out. Sweeping? Nope. The static cling alone made me look like I was fighting off haunted dryer sheets. For every piece I gathered, three more floated away like guilt from a toddler’s conscience.
Kara stood on the dresser like some kind of paper policewoman and proclaimed, “This is why girls don’t nap with boys.” She wasn’t wrong, just about 30 minutes late with her verdict.
Jo came in, surveyed the damage, and walked right back out again with the whispered prayer, “Not today, dear Jesus, not today.”
I eventually filled three trash bags with soggy, crumpled tissues, mourning the $22.99 plus tax lost that day. As I wondered what would take its place on the roll, the idea of Poison Ivy for the boys floated into my mind. I set the thought aside—it needed time to develop, perhaps to resurface at Logan’s wedding.
So yes, the boys are fine. The house is mostly intact. But the next time you think nap time is quiet and peaceful? Go check. Or better yet, hide the toilet paper.
Moral of the Story:
If it’s too quiet, someone is either asleep… or redecorating a room with your emergency supplies.
Hope today’s a clean one,
— austininva
