I come to you with a noble, cotton candy coated idea. The pictures dancing in my head had the sweetest intentions.
THE ROAD TO HELL IS PAVED WITH…
Last Christmas, I asked for something. It wasn’t a present for myself. In my head, I saw an old fashioned red chair. The Helping Chair.
Bright red. Hellfire beasts rest between each innocent screw holding this chair together. There is a stepping stool leading every user down a long, dark, winding, broken road. My head was painted with gumdrops and lollipops at the fun promised by The Helping Chair.
It would allow my child to sit beside me and we would bake cookies and cupcakes together. He would quietly sit in the best chair ever made. He would sing his favorite gospel hymns, and I would toil away at treats and healthy, homemade breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. Oh, the salvation to mother and son bonding time sat upon the red faux leather cushion.
He would eagerly help me in all my cooking endeavors. He would be a sponge soaking up each tiny morsel placed on the blue kitchen counter. He would only climb down from the bird’s eye view to dance to Mama’s favorite ‘top-down mix.’ I used to own a convertible. Used to.
I used to have some things, and I had certain beliefs. Some of them true, some of them not so true, because some of them were only good intentions. THE ROAD TO HELL IS PAVED WITH:
In theory, that is all The Helping Chair was. One Good Intention.
The truth behind the possessed chair is that it’s new name is: THE GET IN TROUBLE CHAIR.
You can’t cook with a toddler. Do you know why? They want to put EVERYTHING in the TOASTER! Currently, we have sugar, coffee, crayons, and fake little wood toast in our toaster. You had better turn our toaster upside down before you actually intend to toast real bread in it. And, shake it real good. By shake it, I mean shake the ever loving life out of it until you don’t hear things rattling inside of it anymore. When you stop hearing the rattling noise, you may have gotten everything out of the toaster. Plastic melting and burning is a smell which will linger in a house FOR DAYS. Possibly weeks.
“Hi, welcome to our home. Oh you like our candle? Why, it’s burning Mickey Mouse scented. It’s an exclusive scent brought to you by our precocious, adorable angel who likes to use his favorite helping chair to hide things in the toaster.” Suck it, Scentsy.
The other great aspect to owning your very own Helping Chair is the easy access to knives. No matter where you move the knives, the toddler can push his Helping Chair and climb higher. He’s fast, and he never intends to actually sit in The Helping Chair. He can drag the dang chair to any room he wishes, and once there, he can hang from the ceiling fan. Next week, the poltergeist chair will probably find its way up the stairs. There are more places for The Helping Chair to visit, it hasn’t been upstairs.
We keep threatening to put The Helping Chair in the attic. The Helping Chair is not helpful. It is trouble. It was a sweet thought, a good intention. But, I like my coffee. Actually, I LOVE COFFEE. Please don’t waste my coffee by putting it in the toaster and then pull a knife on me. Not Cool. Not Helpful.
I’m going to walk into my kitchen now, and give The Helping Chair a good, long stink eye. I’m probably going to kick it, and it will break my toe. Good Intentions, people. The road to hell is paved with cotton candy sugary good intentions, and my intentions come in the form of a red, old fashioned stool chair.