Before I go off and mommyblog all over the place, I finished the quilt and it's winging its way to Illinois and the shower. I wish I could be there, but the boyos' last day of school is Thursday, and that's something they shouldn't miss, even if they don't remember it later on.
Now. I am thoroughly sick of small children. Sick. Of. Them. I'm this close to eating my young, and I can't promise I won't eat anyone else's. I have recipes people, and I'm not afraid to use them!*
The house has been bombarded by small children since last Wednesday night. We seem to have become the neighborhood drop-off point. The kid-friendly house. Only I'm not Mother Goose, so it's more like a toddler flophouse. Little children sent away by their fed-up parents, wandering the world in their ragged jammies, scrounging by with paper routes and chimney sweeping gigs, find their way here – The Last Stop on the Way Down.
But why can't they be winos? Winos are quiet, peaceful people. Instead they're whinos – shouting, screaming, demanding, turning anything they get their grubby little hands on into some sort of weapon, fighting with said weapons, shrieking when said weapons are taken away.
I have bruises.
I can tolerate this in small doses. It's all part of being a Mother of Boys. They fight. They're loud. They get dirty and smell bad. But it's been non-stop. On Sunday there were five of them. Five. Ok, one was a little girl and she smelled fine, but still.
We're spending too much time in the front yard, where people can see us. That's the problem.
“Yeah, sure, he can come over and play! We're just out here doing yard work. Yeah! Sure they can come over. Yeah!”
Yeah. For hours and hours and hours.
I tried to keep them outside. Inside is just a bad deal. Too many rooms. Too many stairs. Too many breakables – like the cat for instance. But they poured in like water through an Army Corps of Engineers levee. And someone got hurt. The littlest one of course. She was fine, but we returned her to her mom, who collected her son about half an hour after that, with the promise that she'd watch them all next time. Just like she said the time before.
And then there were three. And then there were three that night. And then the next day all the parents had hangovers except me, so guess what? And then when it was someone else's turn to watch them all after school on Tuesday, her son wanted to come to our house instead (god knows why).
I finally lost it yesterday. But I had my reasons. When I see a kid pitting my sons against each other, and then running to me to tattle on the one he's isolated, I get a little upset. So I yelled at him. Loudly. I think my hair caught fire.
I had to separate my boyos, reading to the one who had been picked on last (this kid took turns choosing his 'favorite' when he played his little games) while the other two watched a video. I don't know if it was the best solution, but it brought peace for a while.
*Stuff the urchins with lemons and brush on a little rosemary-infused Oliver oil before roasting in an 350 degree oven. Serve with fingerling potatoes.