Our basement playroom is kid heaven. The couches are for jumping; the pillows are for throwing. I don’t supervise or say no constantly the way (unfortunately) I do in the upper levels of my lovingly renovated 1920s Craftsman. (You all know how I feel about kids in my kitchen with my cherry cabinets.)
We observe a two-hour basement quiet time every afternoon, my chance to catch my breath and play on the internet. (I mean “prep dinner.”) (Aha. Ha. Hahahahahaha.) My only basement rule is that the kids must clean up before they come upstairs. It used to work. Maybe I helped them more or they were more eager to please when they were little.
About four months ago, it all went wrong.
Visit me at Mamalode today for the end of my sad tale of my journey through basement playroom hell. I made it out the other side with only slight scorching.
Comments are closed. Hope your weekend is filled with pools and popsicles. But only outside popsicles. Preferably in the pool. xo.
