Motivational Me

This morning, before God was awake, S came running into my room, chasing Clooney in wooden dutch clogs, on steroids, followed by a herd of elephants, a gaggle of geese, a troupe of howler monkeys, and a 1980s hair band cranked to "11."
It was going to be that morning. So, I politely send him to his room, and advise him that there will be punishment for slamming the door.
And in his most adult voice EVER, he says, "Well, thanks for telling me!" and slams the door.



I'm in the shower. Nude. Soapy. Thinking, mistakenly, that perhaps the 7 minutes it takes me to shower could be moments spent alone. E comes in, snivelling and crying, with a touch of whine and cheese thrown in for good measure. "Please tell S to turn off my light and get out of my room so I can sleep." If, by sleep, he means silent kung fu against invisible opponents of a Bakugan/Pokemon/Ben 10 hybrid enemy, then sure. So, I scream out of the shower, "S! Get out of your brother's room. He wants to go back to bed! You've awoken everyone in this house by running around with the dog! LEAVE! YOUR! BROTHER! ALONE!" That'll do it. Screaming things from the shower, where children know you are incapable of quickly darting out and catching them in mid-evil doing, has always worked in the past. Right?
As I am drying off, and have slammed the door to the bathroom shut with my drippy foot, S comes barging in, T-shirt half on: "Did it ever occur to you that I was tired, too?"



I'm sorry, S. Was my sleeping waking you? While I have plans to entertain them with friends and food and swimming and everything unicorny and rainbowy and chocolate chip cookie and milky, sometimes I have to question why I torture myself? There comes a point when even the softest, newest, most naive, most emotionally invested, by-the-book social worker would understand seeing children bungee corded to the luggage rack at 65 on the highway outta town with me holding an open container and crack.
*Thanks to photobucket.