Day is Done

June Cleaver, I am not. Her hair was always coiffed. Mine is hanging in my face.

Her clothes were neatly pressed and proper. Right now, mine are covered in doo doo, blood and snot.

Her house was orderly. My is the scene of a nuclear meltdown from our older son while our younger son drinks in the scene with pleasure.

Dinner is not made. The laundry is not put away. I haven't seen an iron in a decade.

The only things that I will give a "Come Hither" look to tonight are a glass of wine and my bed.

And, in case anyone wanted to know, tonight, The Tic is back. It is becoming his signature move. We all need to give it a name.

Touch penis. Touch eyeball. Touch penis. Touch eyeball.

"Mom," our astute younger son said, "he's doing that THING again."

"Don't talk about your brother as if he's not in the room. It's rude." I counter. What I am really thinking is, " I KNOW! I KNOW HE IS DOING THAT THING AGAIN! And, I'm wearing his poop. And, you have talked my ear off ALL DAY about the minutia of perhaps every topic on the planet that I DO NOT care about in the least."

I went into the bathroom to get a moment to gather myself. They followed me. There should be some rule against that. Older son is terribly upset, and he is crying to me about it. Younger son is flitting about like a happy butterfly, offering commentary about it all. I closed myself off into the bathroom and BREATHED.

Well, I guess I breathed too long. Our older son started to bang on the door. He's done this before. He has some internal alarm clack that he has set which determines how long he thinks people need to take in the bathroom. I have exceeded my limit.

Our younger son LOVES this. As his brother melts down even more, he delights in pushing his buttons by singing a song. This time, the words were quite simple, set to random notes played on the piano which sits--just my luck--not far from the powder room door.

"Mom is in the bathroom. The bathroom. The bathroom. Mom is in the bathroom. It's her turn to pooooop." Lots of giggles when he sings a word he knows he shouldn't say. "It's her turn to poop. It's her turn to poop. Mom is in the bathroom. It's her turn to poooooop!"

For the record, I was doing no such thing. I was only hiding.

I had hit one of those moments when time seemed to stand still in the middle of swirling chaos. And, I thought, wow, this really is my life. Well, they have me cornered now, but at least the day can end on my terms.

Stand up. Deep breath and out the door I went to face my ornery foes.