Let me be frank for a minute: whoever said that 5 o'clock was the appropriate time to start drinking never had a 4-year-old boy. They just didn't. Whoever said it was either a masochist or childless. It is either/or, by the way. You can't have children and not be a masochist. So, to the childless, I say 5 o'clock is too late. To the masochists, I say mind your own business.
My boy is driving me nuts. Like, really, really nuts, and there is really no getting around the fact that the only way to counter the nuts is with wine, be it 9 a.m. or 6 p.m.
Last week, I didn't feel well. As is the case with a stay at home mom, the kids just don't care. I don't get a sick day. I just have to muddle through as best I can. The best I could do that day was watch TV with my little guy after his sisters departed for school. In an unprecedented act of sleepiness, I completely passed out on the couch. For two hours. Two very solid hours. When I awakened, I discovered my little man had seized the opportunity to unleash his creativity on my house.
I found crayon wall art. I found a yellow lab with a new blue marker tattoo. Upstairs, he had attempted culinary uniqueness by making mouthwash soup with large dallops of toothpaste all over the bathroom counter. Entering the playroom, I saw that what was formerly a half a ream of printer paper and a new roll of Scotch tape was now a giant paper fort intended to house his stuffed animals. It was like Christmas Nightmare on Elm Street with a new horrible surprise waiting around every corner. I give him credit for doing all of this relatively silently, but, man, that will teach me to get sick and accidentally fall asleep ever again.
Then, a few days ago, I decided to take a shower. I do this on a daily basis. I have for several years. I find it's the only way I can feel human. I used to let my babies scream in their bouncer seats just so I could wash away the filth they had pooped, peed, and barfed on me the day before. It seemed like a fair trade off. Now that they keep most of their bodily functions to themselves, I guess I don't need to shower daily, but I do. I think it's a side effect of living in America where frivolity reigns.
I took 10 minutes. Just 10. Titus has not even noticed my absence in the past. He sits with his morning snack and PBS, and he prefers to be left alone. Well, not this day. This day, the boy had a mission: Destroy the House and Drive Mommy Bat Poo Crazy, Part 2. This time, I met with an even worse mess in a fraction of the time. He managed to get the sugar bowl off the top shelf of a cabinet. It was completely empty by the time he was done with it. I imagine a good portion went to his tummy, but there was plenty left to coat the counter, the kitchen floor, and part of the living room floor. Of course, you can't have sugar scattered all over the place without raisin bran. I found this all over the living room floor and in between each and every couch cushion. The dogs had a lot of fun with this, so many of the areas where the cereal landed were now covered in sugar and dog drool. He wasn't finished. He got out our iced tea maker (remember: America=frivolity). He filled it with a box of rice crispies (lower case because I buy the store brand; clearly my children do not deserve name brand), some peanuts in the shell, a generous helping of milk, and half a box of cheese crackers (again, off brand). Oh--and don't forget, sugar on top! Then he plugged it in and let that little concoction stew.
I was speechless. Mouth-open-wide-eyed-smoke-coming-out-of-my-ears speechless. Titus looked at me sheepishly and said slyly, "Mommy, I made you a snack." Immediately, the phrase, "Good intentions pave the road to hell" came to mind. I merely pointed to the couch, and he took his cue and sat down. Had he been a dog, his tail would have been between his little, scheming legs.
Someday I may look back and laugh at all this. For now, all I know is 5 o'clock isn't early enough to reach for the wine, especially now that I can't have iced tea.
