The house is hanging on by a thread. Tim’s “bed rest” after surgery? Yeah, it’s turned into the House Destruction Olympics.

Day 8. Hour 1. And the chaos has already begun.

My brand new shoebox? A prime target. Tim’s been running laps with the box in his mouth like he just won a trophy. And the tissue paper? Shredded like it owed him rent.

Next victim: the baby toys.

Ellie’s soft teething rings—yep, now part of Tim’s chew collection. She’s officially been promoted to “shared custody” of her own stuff. Every time I look away, he’s got another toy in his mouth and that “What? Can you blame me?”

I go to correct him, and he stares at me like:

“Can you blame me? I’m bored. I’m stuck in a cone. I haven’t chased a bird or played fetch in a week.”

Honestly, mood.

By the end of the first hour, Tim has made his rounds through every room, nose in business he shouldn’t be in. My black flip-flops? His latest conquest. I found one in the kitchen and the other halfway under the couch. How?