If you chant the word “underwear” one more time at the top of your lungs in this restaurant, it’s no TV tomorrow.

“I’m putting away the tweezers now, so do not jam any more Play Dough way up your nose.”

Um, stop. Do not put cheese-melted nachos in my boots.

“WOAH!!! NoNoNoNoNoNO! We do not RIDE DOWN the stairs in a laundry basket!”

[1]

No matter how much you try to teach the snake to say, “Mama,” he’s never going to do it, I’m sorry.

[2]

Dumping an entire potted patio plant into your kiddie pool brings Mommy dangerously close to a nervous breakdown, so please—please—don’t do that again.

Why is there a beach bucket full of cooked spaghetti behind my desk chair?

“I know you’re sad about it, but no, you may not play in your play kitchen with real eggs.”

(We don’t have a whole lot of rules around here, relatively, but you’d be amazed how much energy Steve and I have had to exert over the last few weeks enforcing this one rule. Somehow, the Real Egg Rule alone causes us to dip into our bank of discipline just about daily. We may want to consider instituting an Extension Ladder Rule now, just to anticipate what’s likely to happen later in the week, as the eggs move up higher and higher in the fridge.)

“Why are there little teeth marks in the toilet seat?”

“Do not put knives up your nose.”

[1]

When you’re in the woods, and you encounter a hole in the ground, DO NOT stick a twig in it.

[2]

No sucking on your toes at the dinner table.

OK, I can tell you’re frustrated. But in the moving car is probably not the best place to play with your new hula hoop.

“Don’t put candy down your pants.”

“I’m sorry, but you can’t go to the grocery store in nothing but your tutu.”