Either my house is possessed, or my kids are lying to me.  Of course, my children are perfect angels.  So my house must be harboring impish spirits.

            Things happen for which I believe I have an answer, but then one of my children will set me straight and let me know that my logical answer is clearly not how it happened.
            “I thought I told you to clean your room.”
            “I did.”
            “Then why are there toys, books and laundry on the floor?’
            “That’s not my fault.”
            ‘Well, then, whose fault is it?”
            “I think my bookshelf was throwing things on the floor.”
            “Is that right?” I ask, skeptically. “How did your bookshelf get hold of your laundry?”
            “I dunno.  But,” he insisted, “I know I cleaned my room.”

            I didn’t want to scare him, but if the furniture in his room was behaving badly, he probably should not be sleeping in there at night.  What if he made it mad and it started tossing his collection of Hot Wheels around?  You really can’t monitor your furniture at night.
            “Okay, I want to know which one of you boys needs glasses!”
            “Not me!”
            “Not me!”
            “Then, if you don’t need glasses, who deliberately missed the one-foot diameter toilet bowl that should have been easy to see?”
            “Not me!”
            “Not me!”
            “Do you expect me to believe that your sister somehow missed?”
            “Maybe the toilet leaks?”
            “So it’s the toilet’s fault now, is it?”
            “It must be…”
            “All right, then.  If you two want to keep your toilet-using privileges you need to clean up after it when it leaks.  It obviously doesn’t know how to use the litter box and taking it for a walk is out of the question.  So, you are both going to take turns cleaning up the mess it makes when it decides to leak on my bathroom floor!”

            If that doesn’t work, I’ll have to dig them a latrine in the backyard!
            “You need to brush your teeth, girl.”
            “I did!”
            “Then how do you explain the piece of barbecued chicken caught between your two front teeth?”
            “My toothbrush must’ve missed that spot.”
            “So we’re blaming the toothbrush?”
            “That’s my story,” she said sheepishly.
            What’s the world coming to when you can’t even count on your toothbrush to do the job for which you purchased it?

            Clearly, my household is revolting (in more ways than one).  The furniture and fixtures are possessed by imps.  Somehow, I need to get a handle on this.  Who… or what… is their union rep and what do they want?