The war of the baking drawer

Yes, those are my feet at the top of the photo.

This is my baking drawer, and not in an ironic, hipster baking-is-the-new-yarn-bombing kind of way. Just a humble drawer I cleared out in the beginning of the year to keep all my baking goodies in one place. Cause that’s how I roll now, mom-style.

It’s more than just a drawer, though. It’s my SPACE. Mine, all mine.

You’d think as the person paying off half the bond on our house, and dishing out half the smacked bottoms – I’ve earned the right and respect to put my knick-knacks and belongings in any damn drawer I please.

But no-o-o-o!

I can’t even poop in peace without the feel of a chubby hand squeezing in between my butt and the toilet seat to gleefully drop newly-shredded loo paper into the bowl. Yeah, true story. The contents of my underwear drawer are frequently scattered around my bedroom – like it’s the stage of a Kings of Leon concert.

And the other day our silly novelty shop ‘sex dice’ I bought one Valentines’ Day (cause you do stuff like that when you’re newly married) were mysteriously found lying on the kitchen counter. Thank the Big Guy Upstairs we did not have guests visiting!

This is what my baking drawer looked like this weekend.

(I'm willing to admit that I just might have a classic Type A personality and that this mess isn't that bad.)

I am declaring war, kids. Mommy wants her spaces back. This means my bedroom is no longer your playground. The freezer door does not get left open for hours after you’ve played in it. My shoes remain neatly paired in my effing cupboard. The landline’s phone receiver stays in the cradle so that mommy can take business calls during 9-5.

Scatter your toys like rainbow sprinkles all over the house – that’s cool.

But be warned, bratlings: with your new baby brother on the way, Mommy is now exercising her right as the sole vagina in the house to have one measly 30cm x 30cm space dedicated to my beloved silicone Le Creuset spatulas. Rummage through my baking drawer at your peril.