This morning, my middle child, who is typically the only voice of reason in the entire house, was screaming for 10 minutes (which is like 10 hours in non-parent time) about the color of her uniform skirt. She was also kicking at the air and thrashing around like someone about to be tied to a table and given shock therapy.
Simultaneously, the almost-2-year-old was also screaming because he only has vocabulary related to Star Wars and Football and apparently whatever he needed did not fit into either the Star Wars or Football category, so he resorted to animal-like screams that should be reserved for CIA prisoners.
The oldest was wearing a polo shirt with short legging pants that appeared to have belonged to a baby, eating her hair and muttering about how there were too many babies in this house. The whole episode made her look like a crazy hobo/bag lady/orphan child in a 1920s inspired musical.
There is not enough coffee or wine or shock therapy in the world.
At this point, I feel I should come to some higher level, beautiful conclusion about how it all goes so fast or how this is the job or something enlightened and brilliant about parenthood and motherhood. Perhaps point to the deep and critical importance of the job.
But, the baby has begun throwing yogurt melts all over the living room and since the dog has stopped eating yogurt melts, I have to find the vacuum and begin working on my Halloween costume.