If I’m approximately four weeks away from moving overseas, why am I at Ikea?

I’ll tell you.

I’m a neglectful mommy and my child has the power to bend solid wood. You see this cutting board?

It used to lie flat against the counter until it tangled with Avery…

I left him in front of the TV for about…umm, TWO minutes while I selfishly took a shower after a morning of scrubbing, mopping, and polishing the kitchen.

When I came back, Avery was standing over a  teeny tiny cup with an empty Brita pitcher in his hands…

He missed the cup and there were puddles everywhere- on the counter, on the floor…

His simple response to my pained expression was, “Avery thirsty. Drink water, Mommy?” as if his every whim isn’t already catered to…

Furthermore, how DARE I shower when he was clearly suffering from dehydration…

I screamed ranted sent Avery to his room and cleaned up quickly, then I went up stairs to talk to him.

I got down to his level and coolly and calmly explained that if Mommy has to spend her ENTIRE day cleaning… and, then cleaning again… that doesn’t leave much time to do fun things together like play or go outside.

I thought it was a very “SuperNanny” approach. Just as I was about to pat myself on the back,  Avery responded with, “But Mommy made mess too…”

“Huh?”

“In bathroom. Mommy made mess. Water spill out of tub!”

I should note here that there is NO way to get out of our tub without getting water on the floor. There just isn’t…

(Especially when you have to hop out quickly to respond to a loud clatter in the kitchen…)

…and of course, when Avery went to his room, he walked past the bathroom and saw the water on the floor.

How else could I respond except with a stunned, “Ummm, yeeeeessss…. and that was… wrong. Okay, you’re not in trouble. Just… Just go play.”

Yes, out-maneuvered and out-argued by my two-year-old son. Brilliant.

I’ve never been so proud, but how does that all relate to the cutting board?

Well, it seems in my haste, I  failed to mop up the water UNDER it and by the next day, it had taken on a decidedly “artistic temperament”…

…and since it came with the house, I’m obligated to replace it. So, that is why I’m at Ikea in the midst of  selling, disposing, and giving away.

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By the way, if any of you are ever tempted to remodel with a kitchen from Ikea, I must warn you. It may seem all sleek, modern, innovative, and CHEAP, but don’t.

Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.

Our landlords did and there are ways in which it sucks that violates our lease agreement and therefore I will not disclose it until after we move.

Basically, if you plan to LOOK at your kitchen, it’s good. Planning to use your kitchen, however… not so good.

Bendy solid wood cutting boards. Case and point.

I hate Ikea.

Okay, that’s not true. I actually love Ikea. I just hating going to Ikea.

It’s always crowded and I can never find that one specific item that prompted the whole  trip in the first place. Not that there’s ever anyone to ask…

Even if I do find someone that works there, they either…

a) spend 20 minutes on some roundabout explanation that can basically be summed up in seven words: “I don’t know and I don’t care” or…

b) yelled at me in some angry, incoherent “seems-like-English-but-those-aren’t-real-words” variation of what I assume is a British accent.

At least, this was the case when Avery and I went to there last week…

Just when I was thoroughly hating life (and Ikea), Avery started to lose his patience. (Not that I blame him.)

I promised to let him press the buttons on the lift if he would just bear with me while I looked for just… one… last… thing…

Unconvinced, he headed straight for the doors. (Smart kid)

He reached for the “1” button when I explained to him that the first floor is called the ground floor here and the second floor is actually the first, and blah, blah-blah, blah blah until the doors opened once again.

As we got stepped off the lift, a man riding with us approached me and clumsily asked,“Are you… Um, did I hear… Uh, is that an American accent I detect?

“Yeah, we just moved here from the States,” I replied as a feeble half-apology for talking too much/blocking his way/suggesting that the ground floor could be anything but…

“Oh, thought so,” he replied, “I just love the American accent. It’s so… SEXY” (!!!)

Ummm, I think I like Ikea a little bit more now.

Well, except for those stupid arrows… always telling you where to go, but never taking you where you want to be. Stupid arrows!

While playing in the at the park, a little British schoolgirl approached Mike (and Avery) with this query….

Girl: Is that (pointing to Avery) your little boy?

Mike: Yes, he’s my son.

Girl: (slowly enunciating) Why is he broooooown when you are white?

Mike: It’s because his mommy is brown*.

Older (wiser) friend of girl: That’s something you’ll learn about later…

*Alternative answers:

“To confuse you.”
“I bought him from gypsies.”
“We’re American.”