Pittering, Pattering, Screaming and Splattering

So this morning at 5:45, the pitter-pattering of little feet began. So did the shrieking, complaining, cries of ‘I hate you forever!’ and ‘Gimmie it!’ ‘No!’ ‘Mine!’ ‘NO!!’

Some people get birds chirping on the windowsill. Some people get their favorite radio station. Some people get trash trucks (which, while not exactly pleasant, at least are things that do not demand any action from you – unless, of course, you forgot to put out your totes the night before, in which case they require you running out in your unmentionables to drag the damn things to the curb).

Me, I get shrieking, running and the sound of excessive water being run in the bathroom, which means that somebody is filling up a vessel of some kind which will probably end up being poured on somebody else’s bed if I don’t put my butt in gear.

Being a gentle, loving mother who respects their delicate grasp of justice and fairness, I naturally threw open my bedroom door and shouted down the hall: “If you do not stop making that noise this instant, I am going to come down there and take every single one of those princess dolls away!!”

Then I put on my last pair of (sorta) clean jeans, and decided that a few little stains from yesterday weren’t anything to bother with right now – I honestly don’t think that Tyra Banks is going to pop into my life any time soon to criticize my fashion choices.

I brushed my hair and judged that going one more day without a shower isn’t likely to actually kill me, but another week without a visit from my best buddy Ms. Clairol might. It occurs to me that if Tyra were, in fact, to pop into my life, those beautiful doe-like eyes of hers would probably fill with tears of pity for me. Which would undoubtedly piss me off. Maybe I should actually really consider getting my hair cut done an actual hairstylist instead of using a teenager with a summer job at Supercuts and a box of whatever hair dye is on sale at WalMart...

I put on my socks and tennis shoes and determined that while they are getting a little bit on the worn side, they still cover my feet OK and don’t have any actual holes in them (my last pair were five years old and had holes the size of dollar slugs in their soles before I broke down and bought these). I like to call it 'shabby chic' and pretend that I am taking my fashion to the next level. At least, that's what I'd tell Tyra, when she came to invite me to be America's Next Top Model. Although the fact that, due to certain damage to the old figure that I like to blame on the children because it is convenient to do so, I can barely even reach my feet might damage my chances on that front...

In the meantime, I crushed five little dreams:

Can we go to a farm? No, and get out of my bedroom.
Can we go to Disneyland? No, and get out of my bedroom.
Can we go to Chuck-E-Cheese? No. And. Get out of my bedroom.
Can we go to the zoo? Whaddya call this place?! And! Out!
Can we go to grandma’s house?! No. {point silently at the door}

Eldest has told me all about the three chapters of Farmer Boy she read last night. That would be Farmer Boy by Laura Ingalls Wilder. That would be a book considered appropriate for 9-12 year olds.

Excuse me, my daughter is only seven! And may I just state for the record that she has read this over my shoulder, aloud. And she wishes to state that it isn’t hard to read and that books shouldn’t be only for people who are a certain age because…well, because {adorable shrug and self-deprecating giggle here}.

Lord help us. What are we going to do with the child?!

I must go now. I have only had one cup of coffee, and that ain’t enough to keep this creaking old brain clipping along fast enough to pace these kids, not one of which is a bit stupid.

And no. We’re not going to China while Eldest is on break. Even though they speak in Chinese and make tea, which, coincidentally, Eldest is growing quite fond of, especially if she can put the sugar in it herself.

Too. Much. Input.
Too. Little. Coffee.
Must. Go. Brew. More.

While I brew, I will ponder the intricacies of attempting to plan an impromptu trip to China, of all places, wedged in among all the ballet classes, trips to Grandma’s, birthday parties and etcetera already on the calendar for this brief little month she has off school…