Homeless

It's the weekend. My husband reclaims his Man Cave on the weekends and, ewww, enhances it's filth even more. I feel homeless without my retreat. I'm a captive audience for younger son and, seriously, his mind-numbing propensity to chatter. Chatchatchatchatchatchat.  Good gravy this kid can talk!

"Mom, if The Titanic were to face that tsunami in Japan, I know that it would grow super powers and defeat it. Watch, I will demonstrate with my model. Are you looking? Mom, watch! Here it goes!" No, I am not really looking. I am clicking away on the keys to my phone so that I don't lose my mind. Luckily, I taught him about peripheral vision, so when I assume this posture, he says that he is sure I am using my peripheral vision to watch him.

We are now talking about the possibility of an F5 tornado hitting the iceberg at the same time a tsunami struck. I don't think he uses any periods to his sentences. The words are blasting out together in an endless stream.

I love my children, and I am admitting my limitations. I need a weekend Mom Cave with an extra large coffee pot in order to survive until Monday. It's the only way I can continue to parent with the enthusiasm these children deserve.

For now, I am clicking away on my phone in the middle of an endless sea of chatter.