Don’t Murder the Children
This is something I’ve found myself having to repeat often over the last couple weeks.
Because as one of my fellow Toastmasters likes to remind us, we are all just one bad decision from incarceration. He knows. He works at the local correctional facility where he runs a Toastmasters group for the prisoners.
Now, I’ve never been to jail. But I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t like it. On the count of I like to pee on my own schedule. And I’m just not that interested in women…romantically. So there’s that.
But, I digress.
So, my children finished school and started summer vacation two weeks ago. It’s been the longest 14 days, 3 hours, 15 minutes and 46 seconds of my life.
Because, you see, my children are not going to summer camp. And I work from home. It goes without saying that things have been quite….challenging around here. For all parties involved: me, the kids. And their dad.
It’s really difficult to do research, be creative and write when you’re constantly being called upon to do stuff. I know this may come as somewhat of a shock to some of you, but children like to be entertained. And fed.
They’re needy that way.
I mean, I love my kids. They’re super duper awesome. But as I told someone who suggested I just take them with me when I need to go somewhere, my kids are like adorable little bulls in a china shop.
Last week, my internet was acting up so I took them with me to the corner coffee shop. Not only did I get nothing done, we are now banned from Starbucks.
I also haven’t spoken to a grownup for 2 weeks. And yesterday, I found myself singing the theme song for the Thundermans. Every freaking word.
Now, don’t get me wrong, it hasn’t been easy for them, either. They’re bored out of their skulls.
So they fight. A lot.
There’s a lot of screaming and bloodcurdling screeches going on. And a lot of demands to be fed.
There’s only so much TV watching, iPad playing, blanket fort building and house destroying they can do before they’re at my side again, trying to make my head explode. And asking for food.
And every day, when their dad gets home, he gingerly tiptoes through the front door, half expecting to walk in on WWIII. Or else to find those little white chalk outlines on the ground.
He sends me these little texts every day, asking how my day is going. At first I thought, “aw, how sweet!” But now I realize he’s just trying to determine if he should call the cops. Or the nice men with the white coats.
Last night, he begged me to line up a summer camp for them, lest he find me in the fetal position in a corner one day, hugging my knees to my chest and rocking back and forth. Or he might have to come visit me in my padded room.
I think he’s legitimately concerned that one of us will end up dead. And he’s the only one with life insurance.
So, before I lose my whole mind and make one of those bad decisions that lands me in the Gavel Club, I think I’m going to take him up on his offer and find a fun camp for the kiddies so I don’t, in fact, end up murdering the children.