Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed. And I’m not speaking literally, as the MOG and I established sides in the Early era and only switch when it means he is further away from a newborn baby, for the 18 months or so that I cater to the noob’s every whim. I am speaking metaphorically, here, of the wrong side.
Chicken or the egg, you might ask, and I’d be like pipe down, I’m trying to think here. I don’t know if I woke up irritated or they woke up screaming, or if we met halfway, in a tangle of blood and fire. Once the spiral starts, it is so hard to slow down, so all morning they screamed and fought and collapsed on the kitchen rug. (side note: we got rugs in the kitchen. since then, emotional collapses have increased by like 75% in that location. I don’t ever remember anyone laying on the sticky cold tile, but the rugs are infested with children) So they wailed and I griped and eventually the Man of God came home from something, probably a prayer meeting, heck if I know, and started making judgy eyes at me as I made snappy remarks at the Wailing Wall Triplets, which was well received by me, because I try to be like Jesus.
Things improved at lunch, when we all had our mouths full of food for a while, but then riots broke out in Quiet Time and I had to split the dynamic duo up, which caused not just regret but deep, deep mourning and eventually a mutiny, which I pretended to not notice. And THAT, kids, is a run-on sentence. Better than a fragment.
Clearly, the wisest choice for me at that point was to try to hot glue yarn to a dilapidated lion costume, because crafts are the best choice for women on the edge of themselves. It went fine, if you’re into burns and psychotic breaks. In the end, I might have to make cardboard signs to identify their characters. Otherwise, everyone might assume they are Israel and Palestine.
Bedtime is coming soon, very soon, maybe sooner than ever before.