A Clean Kitchen and Other Dangerous Omens

The fireball missed my head by maybe two inches—close enough to singe a few rebellious hairs that never listen anyway. Rude, considering I’d been having a wonderful afternoon up until that exact moment.

For the first time in at least five years, I had managed to clean the kitchen right after lunch. Not “I wiped a counter while someone screamed for a snack,” but truly, absurdly, suspiciously clean. The kind of clean that feels like a special effect. The kind of clean that makes you question physics. It looked like one of those enchanted homes you see during playdates—the ones belonging to mythical moms who apparently maintain order through forbidden magic and an unholy alliance with their label makers.

But I had done it. My kitchen looked as though my three children had never set foot in it. I felt powerful. Triumphant. Like one of those people who drinks water voluntarily and returns library books on time.

When I left that kitchen, I swear I had a little swagger. Possibly theme music. I was riding the high so thoroughly that I did not register the faint smell of smoke—my first mistake. Though in my defense, I assumed it was just the lingering scent of citrus cleaner and my own delusional pride.

The second warning sign was harder to ignore: a smallish fireball flying straight at my face.

It wasn’t moving fast enough to send me into a panic, but let’s be honest—there is no speed at which “incoming fireball” becomes a normal part of your Tuesday. No one thinks, Ah yes, some light scorching. Lovely.

At least the kitchen was clean. I’d already peaked for the day, apparently.

Clark—my husband’s cat familiar and part-time menace—darted past me toward the scorch mark. With a flick of his tail, the flames hissed out, offended by the disrespect. Then he made a lazy swirl with his paw, and a small fleet of cleaning supplies floated over to scrub the carpet like a disciplined housekeeping brigade.

I stared at him. I had no idea he could do that. The furry wizard was absolutely getting a stern talking-to later, preferably at a time when the threat of spontaneous combustion wasn’t looming.

I spotted the source of the attack at the top of the stairs. My two older kids were deeply committed to what I could only assume was a live-action Pokémon battle. By “committed,” I mean fully embracing the destructive spirit of the franchise.

This revelation came with several follow-up questions:

When did they start watching Pokémon?
When did they learn enough to start recreating elemental warfare?
Should I be concerned that they have skipped straight to combat magic?

James—my eldest, age four, and apparently the Fire Lord now—was crouched dramatically, hands cupping a little ember that was growing into a fireball. His tiny face was scrunched in fierce concentration, like he was trying to earn a scholarship to Elemental Kindergarten.

Sophie, seated next to him, had assumed the serene posture of an anime heroine waiting patiently for her turn to unleash devastation. She looked so calm, so certain, so ready to avenge absolutely anything.

Some moms worry about screen time. At that moment, I was worried about structural damage.

Without taking my eyes off the miniature pyromancers, I said to Clark, “How did this happen, and why didn’t you come get me?”

Clark looked at me with all the weary disdain of a creature who has explained the same rule one thousand times. “You’re right,” he said. “Leaving an open fire unattended is definitely the plan for next time.”

I hated how right he was. Which is why I chose the mature option of pretending I hadn’t heard him.

Before I could defend my dignity, Sophie lifted her hand and conjured a scattering of sparks. I couldn’t identify which lightning Pokémon she thought she was channelling—possibly Pikachu, possibly Jolteon, possibly a toaster—but she was giving it her all.

The sparks shot forward… four inches. Five if you count the optimistic ones.

They didn’t come close to James, but he threw himself backward dramatically, clutching his chest like he’d suffered a fatal blow. The kid had a future in soap operas if the whole Fire Lord thing didn’t pan out.

Their battle continued, each attack more theatrical and less effective than the last. I tried to contain my laughter, really I did, but I ended up snorting into my sleeve. Clark’s tiny feline shoulders shook beside me.

Nothing bonds a mom and a magical cat quite like witnessing pointless, harmless chaos.

“Alright, this might be the funniest thing that’s happened all week—and yes, that includes James peeing in the trash can—but we do actually have to stop them,” I said, still watching the escalating toddler duel. “Do you have any distractions left? I don’t want to give them cupcakes again. They’ll start thinking ‘chaos’ is the magic word for dessert.”

Clark sighed the kind of sigh that belongs in a tragic play. “I’ve been saving this,” he said, “and I truly regret what I’m about to do.”

He stepped toward the kids, staying wisely out of range of their wobbly firepower. With a majestic flick of his tail—honestly, he was milking it—glittery Play-Dough shimmered into existence.

“Hey, guys!” he called.

Both children froze in unison, heads snapping toward the neon dough like baby dragons spotting treasure.

“Who wants to play with some Play-Dough at the table?”

“ME!” they screamed, stampeding.

James arrived first, vibrating like a tiny tuning fork. Sophie was right behind him, already complaining that he wasn’t moving fast enough. Clark flicked his paw again, and an entire kindergarten’s worth of Play-Dough appeared on the table—plus tools, molds, and what looked suspiciously like a miniature extruder.

I raised an eyebrow. “We banned Play-Dough after the… incident last year. Remember?”

Clark kept his eyes on the kids, voice infuriatingly calm. “We banned unsupervised Play-Dough. This is supervised. And also an emergency.”