Ten ways to tell you live with a preschooler

There comes a day when some parents start to look around their once beautiful surroundings and realize their life is indeed no longer their own. 

I used to love looking at sites like Apartment Therapy, not that my apartment looked as good as the ones featured on that site, but there was always hope that maybe one day it could.  It's sort of like looking at the Crate & Barrel or Pottery Barn catalog; I know that very few people actually live in homes that look like that, but a girl can dream can't she?  Well Reader, I'm here to tell you that dream has come to an end.  Or at least it's been pushed to the gunky oatmeal-spackled back burner for now.

Our once hip apartment in the coolest neighborhood, North Beach, in the best city in the world, San Francisco, has taken on a different "feel".  Basically, on any given day it looks like Ikea and Target took on Fisher-Price and Crayola in a grudge match to the death. 

We no longer own a desk.  My piano is in storage.  The CDs have been moved onto a hard drive, the books have peanut butter smudges, and the rugs and furniture have strange unexplainable stains and smells. 

There's a new sheriff in Apartment Town and he's a preschooler.  I offer you photographic proof.

Not so much for people trying to get in so much as for people trying to get out.

First thing you see when you walk in my front door.

There's a nice little view of Alcatraz from that window if I remember correctly.

Self explanatory.

A monthly purchase creatively stored in cupboards meant for dishes.

My kitchen when it is "clean".

Absolute necessity.

I've served wine in the back hoe cup.

A toothbrush, a stick of deodorant, and a bar of soap. That's what there's room for on mommy's shelf.

This is what happens when I try to clean up and put things away.