I love being with my kids. They are funny and cute, serious and wise– and yes, sometimes annoying. Nothing sets my teeth on edge faster than the shrill screams of , “he’s touching me,” or “she scratched me.” (There is no justice for the little brother whose big sister has fingernails.) All in all they are good kids, even when Z9 gets a little yakkity-yak. I figure he’s just making up for the first 4 years of his life when he kept silent and let Z11 do all his talking for him.
Still, I long for a trip to the bathroom that does not feature someone screaming my name and tracking me down, then knocking on the door and asking, “what are you doing in there?” I’m in the bathroom with the door closed. What do they think I am doing in there– underwater basket weaving in the tub?
Usually in the evenings I retire to my boudoir where I work on the laptop, maybe watch a little TV, or read a book. Do I do this alone? God forbid! They troop in behind me carrying their hobbies, Nintendos, books or whatever else they can find (which is also why my bedroom looks like a receptacle for abandoned toys) and we spend “quality” time together. This often consists of them either fighting over what they are going to watch on TV or telling me they don’t like what I’m watching. It has apparently completely escaped their notice that there are two other, fully-functional, cable televisions less than 100 feet from this room.
Generally, the quality time is fine. I don’t watch much TV, so they are free to spend the evening with “Phineas & Ferb” if they like, and we can visit with each other throughout the evening. However, just let me try to watch something on TV I really want to see and all hell breaks loose. Suddenly Z9 has a mosquito bite that needs treatment. “Can you fix it at the next commercial, mom?” “Son, I’m watching PBS, there are no commercials. Just come here and I will take care of it.” He then feels compelled to tell me the names, ages, birthdates and character traits of every person in the computer game he is playing. Z11 is wanting help navigating through something else on a different computer. My mother calls– twice.
At this point, all I want to know is “whodunit?” It wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t already seen the crime committed, but no, they let me get interested in it before they try to drag me away from it. “Okay guys, just let me see the end of this and find out who did it.” “It’s Miss Marple, mom, you already said you’ve read all the books.” Oh thank you 11-year-old fount of wisdom. But this is a film production I’ve never seen before and it’s been 14 years since I read the books. I’ve given birth since then, and God help me, I’ve left brain cells scattered all over southwest Oklahoma and north Texas.