A question: Are your kids loud as fuck?
Because mine are. It’s almost unbelievable how loud they are.
I mean, thank God for the autistic one because at least he seems to possess the ability to keep his mouth shut for ten consecutive seconds.
I spend my days in my quiet house and then Jack gets off his bus and we have a quiet conversation about whatever. Like today he came home with a cookie in his pocket that his teacher gave him because he “worked very, very, very, very hard”—and I quote that because Jack clearly was saying exactly what his teacher had said, complete with arm motions. I could almost see her saying the words.*
(* The irony here is that I can no longer remember the exact words he used. Sue me. Those kids were jabbering at me ALL NIGHT. We’re lucky I can still remember my name.)
Then Quinn and Sam get off their bus and they start shouting questions at me and making outrageous demands. And they don’t stop. Ever. Immediately after school today, we went to Sam and Jack’s OT appointments. Sam’s appointment was supposed to be yesterday, but after we drove all the way down there, the receptionist had double booked the time slot, so they fit them both in today instead, resulting in an entire hour of Quinn in a waiting room. YOU try to live through that.
We did fine for the first half hour. Jack did his homework and Quinn colored, but then Quinn got tired of…sitting…and my new, stupid we-don’t-take-DSi’s-to-therapy-anymore plan backfired on me when he started twirling his stuffed mouse all over the waiting room while asking questions the whole time. Then Sam would interrupt Quinn to ask questions and then Quinn would interrupt Sam and my journey down the rabbit hole of madness continued.
Then I spent a half hour trapped in a car with them. And by “them,” I mean, “Quinn and his incessant questioning.” About halfway home, Quinn is asking question after question when Sam, out of NOWHERE, starts screaming, “My lips! My lips! They hurt! They huuuuuuuurt!”
After five or so minutes of that—during which I was driving in rush hour traffic—Sam determined that his lips were ever so slightly chapped and he stopped screaming—at which point Quinn started asking questions again, most of which centered around whether he could take a bottle of water to school tomorrow in his lunch.
We arrived home just in time for me to make dinner and check my email. I spent about five minutes trying to return an email, but Quinn kept standing next to me shrieking about the water bottle in his lunch and when I asked if he could go to the other room for a minute, he said, “No, I really can’t,” and kept right on jabbering at me.
This is why my emails are the way they are.
I’m not going to get started on the dog, her barking, the fact that she stole half a ham off of our counter this evening after dinner, or how homicidal that particular animal makes me, but suffice it to say, the joy of dog ownership is not calming me down any.
Phew. Thank you. I feel better now. I should be able to make it another day now.