Its another gray, rainy day. The drizzle has dampened my spirits a bit, but not my hair. No, my glossy locks are frizzing and I suspect my cowlicks have absorbed moisture from the air or something because they are encouraging my hair to express itself in an unruly way.

My children, too, are expressing themselves vigorously. Perhaps they have absorbed moisture too. They are all pumped up, and feeling the need to shout and flail about the house.

I lit a scented candle (for the memory of my sanity, ha!) to snap me out of it, and now my kitchen is filled with the synthetic aroma of something vaguely apple-ish. I'm not enjoying it as much as I thought I would. It sort of feels like that scene when the crewmates discover Bishop is an android in Aliens. I distrust glass-housed, synthetic apple crisp en fuego, wrapped in a "painter of light" shrinky-dink label.

The kids. THE KIDS.

1) My son + dinosaurs = insane amounts of trivia directed at my back as I flee the room, hands clamped over my ears. "Hey, mom! Hey! Did you know that plesiosaurs might have been air-breathers? Mom?"

2) My oldest daughter + anyone else breathing air in the universe = hissy fits complete with glares, huffing, hair tossing and foot stamping. "Mooo-oooom!"

3) My toddler daughter + my eyesight straying from her (very cute but come on, now) person = Aaaaaaah! Abandonment! Betrayal! Scorn! Also, get me some juice!

I'm not sure who put me in charge around here. Personally, I'd welcome a little conformity right about now, but no. Even my hair is laller laller lallering at me.

I realize this should have a point, but if I had one, it has been blunted by repeated rammings into my left eye.

Time to break out the pirate eye-patch and join the sideshow.