I know that I spawned these little people that share my life, but today I found myself wishing that I had something or someone else to blame for their behavior.
Alas, No. The reign of terror(s) began at 12:09, when the Circus spawnlings boiled forth from their classrooms, spewing complaints and demands. The popsicle vendor man wasn't in the park.
"Mommy, make the man magically appear with his cart full of overpriced frozen treats! Now!"
"Why can't you, Mommy?"
"Call him on his cell phone."
"You mean you have Santa's number on speed dial, but you don't know the popsicle man's number? Why? You should have it! It's important!"
On and on. Finally, we got to the van, without popsicles, and my son without one shoe. The three-year-old sent out a high frequency noise that I'm pretty sure crashed a plane over the Pacific Ocean when I attempted to place her in her safety seat with the five-point harness.
"I'm a big girl. BIIIIG! I am SIIIIIIX!"
I applied a quick elbow to her abdomen and attempted to muffle her shrieks with my shoulder as I dodged her flailing fists and knees while buckling her in. Once she was buckled, I leaped to a safe distance and staggered a bit at the electromagnetic blast of rage exploding from my van. Once my hearing returned, I noticed the other two staging a revolt.
"I sat in the back on the way here!"
"No, I did."
Sheeeeit. Let it be known that bickering makes me want to blow my diet, with all the calories coming from shots of something alcoholic. However, it was like, noon. No chance of blowing nothing, except maybe a gasket.
"You! There. You! Sit. I don't want to hear ANOTHER WORD."
"AAAAAAAH! SHE LOOKED AT ME!"
Oh my GOD. I can't believe he uncorked that little gem on me. I turned my own heat-ray beams onto the kids as the automatic door slid shut. I'm surprised they didn't have singed eyebrows or something.
At home, it was more of the same. Every thirty seconds, someone was whining or crying, or yelling "Mom!"
I made garlic bread, and the children who will not eat any bread crust were fighting over who got the most black parts on their (burned, whoopsie) slices. My youngest, fresh out of a shower, decided to adorn herself with buttery noodles as soon as I left the room.
No. Just, no. This is NOT the master plan. I specifically ordered well-behaved, mannerly children, with a good idea of which things are best to avoid, unless you want Mommy to go ballistic. Which one of you people got my nice children? Who are these monsters?
Then we tripped off, our hearts light (hah!) to Open House at the school. We visited both classrooms and held it together for the most part. I was having a hard time forgiving my oldest for her major league hissy fits until I saw her daily journal, where not one, not two but five different entries talk about how "My mom is so cool."
I am exhausted, mentally and physically. Please don't let this be a precursor of summer to come.