This article may contain affiliate links that Yahoo and/or the publisher may receive a commission from if you buy a product or service through those links. It happens each evening: I walk through a doorway and inevitably trip over something that belongs to one of the little humans I just tucked into bed. Be it LEGOs, dirty socks, pacifiers, or a half-open book, the feeling is always the same. The volcano of parenting failures that’s been bubbling since dawn suddenly erupts like flaming lava.