couldn't have said it better

I've just guzzled my 99th ounce of espresso today, and as such, I'm very excited to give you way too much back story for the priceless little anecdote at the end.

Mornings at our house are a roll of the dice. Sometimes everyone does just what s/he is supposed to do, and sometimes I have to threaten to burn their toys in a burn barrel to get some cooperation. I myself am the model of misbehavior, so I certainly don't blame my kids when they stray from the perfectly-straight line I've etched into our lives. Today was just fine. We all got showered, dressed, and fed without incident. (Unless you count me calling my 15th low-cal smoothie in a row a "son of a bitch" as an incident...) Long story short, I get my gas money on Friday mornings, so our tank was bone dry today. Thus, we were house-bound, and I think that's when we began to deteriorate. No sooner had my kids exchanged one too many barbs in that shitty Disney Channel tone of voice, and I lost it. I yelled that they were obviously too immature to have their own computer (the object of their duel), and banished them to their beds for 15 minutes. This gave us all plenty of time to calm down, and when they emerged, we had a clean slate, which lasted all day. I was so encouraged by the sudden about-face in our collective mood, I threw myself into a full-fledged mania, and designed an incredibly ingenious (and horrifyingly stupid) plan. I decided we would get into our sputtering jalopy and seeing just how many errands we could accomplish on the atom of gas we had left.

I was immediately overwhelmed by the dismal schematic of my plan, and ended up taking the LONGEST way possible to Mission street to get a blood draw. (Note: Don't ever wear flip flops to a blood lab. You can literally feel the hepatitis crawl up your feet.) Then we took several wrong turns on a street we drive daily, and finally got to Blockbuster to return a movie. Next up was a two mile double-back to Del Taco, where I treated my kids to a much deserved lunch. (And, because I couldn't have any, I upped the ante and called my earlier smoothie a "mother fucker.") The kids were happily unwrapping their tacos, and oblivious to the fact that I would have slit my own jugular to have one, when my sweet Quinny piped up with, "Hey Mama I'm really glad we turned our morning around, and that you're feeling better." To this I responded, "Me too honey. I'm sorry I got so upset. You guys know I take a lot of medications to prevent that from happening, but every now and then it creeps up on me. Again, I'm really sorry."

"Oh that's okay Mama," said Quinn seriously, "I know you have Random Fireworks Syndrome."



When I stopped laughing three hours later, I wondered if maybe "Dynamite Syndrome" wasn't slightly more accurate. After all, fireworks have a certain aesthetic that my outbursts sorely lack.