Oh sweet Santa Clause I am glad that weekend is over. Talk about over stimulation. Not the good kind either. The kind that demands a long hot bath with a cold
glass mug of wine and some Mumford on the Pandora
kind of stimulation. Which I didn’t get. Mainly because I was too exhausted. I
didn’t trust myself to enter that level of relaxation without falling asleep in
the tub and drowning half to death.
So this weekend was our weekend with the kids, plus I had previously agreed to keep my 4 year old, hyper active nephew so my sister could grab some much needed time to herself. GO ME! I ROCK! Auntie of the year, that’s me!… Wait, was this a good idea? I clearly underestimated the level of anarchy 4 children under one roof on a rainy day could generate.
Throughout the weekend I observed the way kids interact with each other. It’s like a cross between something you see on the Discovery channel where it’s kill or be killed, eat or be eaten, and the reality shows where people are forced to live together and form alliances to survive.
There’s the 1,2,3 NOT IT game. This is the preliminary step to the ever so fun game of Tag. See the point is to not be it. So you say, 1,2,3 NOT IT over and over, louder and louder until you aren’t it. It’s not really a fair way to determine whose “it” because what I discovered is generally anyone can start it… and if you don’t like the outcome you start it again… 1,2,3 NOT IT…1,2,3 NOT IT….1,2,3 NOT IT… Repeat until someone concedes to being “it.” Usually it is the youngest of the group. Poor Logan.
Another rule to the game of Tag is base. In theory base is where you can run to be safe and take a little break from all the running. But yet again, this is not a fair aspect to the game because the base is constantly changing. The runner will touch anything and claim it as base. The bed, the table, the lamp, the dog, heck even I became base at one point! I should have locked the bathroom door. Dang it!
The inconsistency in the rules of Tag create sibling warfare like you’ve never seen. NO THAT’S NOT BASE, THIS IS BASE. I TAGGED YOU, YOU’RE IT. NUH-UH, 1,2,3 NOT IT… 1,2,3 NOT IT… Moooom, whose it? Like I know! All I know is you claimed my bed as base in the first round, then busted into my bathroom (without knocking )and claimed my thighs as base and it was uncomfortable for everyone. So my solution is to go outside and figure it out but for the love of all things holy leave me and my thighs out of it.
I don’t know the magic number to create harmony and peace amongst brothers and sisters (and cousins). But I’m fairly certain it’s not 4.
The Sunday morning round-up consisted pretty much of the same junk the day and night before plus a can of cinnamon rolls. Then a gladiator style battle broke out over who got to lick the bowl of icing. It was him against her, her against him. I saw it first, I wanna press it, I wanna do it, it’s my turn, no its my turn, that’s mine, no this one’s mine. My nerves were totally shot.
Sunday afternoon another round of Tag broke loose which turned into hide and seek. The kids found one helluva good hiding spot… My closet. It wasn’t until later that afternoon when I was putting away 4 loads of laundry and hanging up an estimated 197 items that I discovered what those little shit wagons did to my closet. My shoes were everywhere. Not placed neatly in their spot on the shoe racks… the clothes hanging up on the lower section of the closet were all half falling off the hangers, some completely off the hangers and scattered over the heap of shoes.
I could physically feel my last nerve snapping like a twig. I could almost hear a branch snapping in the dark corners of my mind… All the tangled hangers, the un-hung clothes I had to re-hang. Something happened yesterday in that closet. Something dark. Something I’m not proud of. Something I would take back if I could. It looked like this.