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How to Make Sure Your Realtor Reports You to Child Protective Services

I am not considered an expert on many things, but this I have cornered the market on this one.

Come, sit down, let me share all my wise ways with you:

1. Repeatedly, and sometimes vehemently, threaten your children with being left behind in the one of the empty, creepy, non-heated nor water-capable houses through which you’ve been tromping … with accompanied shaking of fist or evil wringing of hands.

2. Completely blow a gasket and have yelling fit that nearly leaves child in fetal position on the ground after realizing that said child has left a door open on the van while you’ve been touring a home. During south Atlanta’s best attempts to pretend it is actually, in fact, Seattle … or perhaps day thirty-nine of forty in Noah’s little ark story, which results in complete soaking of the entire passenger back seat and carpeting, and two boxes of Girl Scout cookies that you neither needed or wanted, but felt compelled to buy because the mom who yelled at her daughter for crying about how cold it was in front of the Chili’s near Sylvester, GA at 9:45 p.m. needed to have her ass handed to her, and my only real recourse was to buy some of her stinking cookies and hopefully get her home in a warm house sooner rather than later … because I AM A LOVING MOTHER! SHUT THE DOOR NEXT TIME or I will force you to ride the entire trip back to Florida strapped to the luggage rack!

3. Continue mumbling under your breath how badly you are in need of an alcoholic beverage.

4. Take a fall down a flight of stairs that exhibits the sort of grace usually reserved for the Russian Ballet sort, maintain sprawled position on stairs because pain is so severe that you fear you may have punctured a kidney or shattered your elbow. Try to get children to stop comforting you with their loving yet excruciating hugs by giving them a distraction, but later realize you may or may not have yelled at them to “not touch me, go find something to do, count power outlets or bathrooms, just leave me alone!”

5. Discover from looking at realtor’s expression that perhaps she does not, in all honestly, find it humorous when I lure my children into a closet, slam the door shut, and flicker the lights on and off … killjoy.

6. Send loud, shrieking children to their ROOMS! In a strange house. That is not ours. And is empty. And the children actually turn and go hide out in bedrooms.

7. Motion to somewhat eerie, random, under-the-stairs storage spot and try to convince child that this IS IN FACT the bedroom ALL HER OWN that we’d promised her. Come on, everyone’s seen Harry Potter, right? We all know you can live in one of those and still come out pretty sane and emotionally stable. Right? RIGHT?

I’d believe that there is a fair chance that our realtor’s sudden burst of high-power, laser-intense home-showing prowess, that has resulted in an offer being made on a house that will not be disclosed, shown or squeezed about until such date that closing has occurred and keys are in hand, is directly proportional to her complete lack of desire to spend one more day with the CRAZEEEEY lady and her brood.

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