You know, I love my kids.
They are beautiful and fascinating and funny and smart and fun.
But they’re kids, and they can wear on a person.
And that person would be me.
And there are days when I think if I hear another ridiculous shrieky squabbly "he – no, she – no, he – no, she"-fest I will just gouge my ear drums with sharpened popsicle sticks.
And I make this known.
And for a while, there is silence, peace, and harmony.
And then I hear the soft but intense tones of a dispute over something – who had that book first…who gets to play with spiderman…who gets to hold the remote…who gets to sit on the couch.
And then it builds…and builds…and soon I hear it – a high-pitched, primal, animal-with-its-leg-in-a-trap screechy, eye-popping scream that threatens to weave into my head through one ear, chew up what’s left of my brain and then scoot out the other ear.
And I take a breath so I can holler effectively at the kids —
And then I realize that this horrible sound is actually coming from me.
Who is this crazy lady I see in my mirror?
And why do her eyes spin in opposite directions like that?
And when was the last time she had her eyebrows waxed?
Too long ago.