Chris suggested that I take some time to myself.
This came after days of the house declining into a cesspool of scattered toys, dirty dishes and dust bunnies. Even though it was several years from becoming as bad as the houses I regularly gawk at on "Hoarders," it was pretty bad.
The mess was compounded with my inability to speak. I was in such a funk, I couldn't guarantee that the verbal diarrhea that would forcefully eject itself from my mouth would not be hurtful, spiteful and cruel.
The energy expended from trying not to speak became too much and I started to cry.
Crying generally scares men, especially when a woman can't (or won't) tell a man what is wrong.
Chris asked me if we thought we were being paid back for our childhoods by our children's behavior: Wes pushes buttons, tests us and chatters incessantly, and Maggie is a malcontent. Pretty much "right on" with our personalities if you would ask our parents. I guess I would have to answer his question with a definitive "yes."
"Wow," he said when he got home from work. "She was yelling at you when I left work and she is still yelling at you when I came home!" Acute, fascinating observation.
I have always believed that I am a fantastic parent of newborns through age four. I am calm, patient and loving. I would have baby upon baby, then give them away around kindergarten.
I think it would be all right for them to return to me as adults, or very complacent teenagers.
But Miss Maggie is testing the beliefs I have of myself.
The day began badly because Chris got her up and changed her diaper. This apparently pissed her off. Ninety five percent of the time it is I who answers her call in the morning and prepares her bottle.
So the malcontentedness began early, like 6:45 a.m. And continued throughout the early morning when she dumped out my (lukewarm) coffee onto the couch.
She slept for barely long enough for me to take a mental break to watch "Drag Me To Hell," a movie that I had to save for nap time because Chris won't watch the horror movie genre.
"Drag Me To Hell" rang a familiar bell. As of late, the rotten behavior of the children makes me feel as if I am in hell.
And if my appearance is any indication, I am being dragged there. I totally got it.
I thought that a trip to Target to browse the end cap sales would improve my mood. Maybe I would find something that had been inadvertently marked down to 95% off. That would put me in a fantastic mood.
Miss Maggie decided shortly after I put her in the cart that she a.) didn't want to be there, and b.) didn't want any one around us to enjoy their shopping experiences, either.
I put cute sweater dress and tights set for her in my cart. They were on sale.
Chris had found us somewhere in the childrens' section. He threw additional items in my cart that I wasn't aware of until I got to the 10 and fewer items lane.
I had more than ten items and my infant girl outfit purchase that I anticipated to be under $10.00 cost me $29.96.
At home, I suggested that we prepare a "restaurant-style" meal at home. Preferably seafood, because I have had the keenest hankering for fried seafood: clams, shrimp, scallops. I am not picky, obviously.
I thought lobsters sounded good, and if all online accounts are true, they are easy to prepare.
But Chris feels bad about throwing them into a pot of boiling saltwater.
I want to tell him, "Dude, if it isn't us, it'll be someone else. Those lobsters in the tanks are as doomed as lobsters can be."
My day is illuminated only because I have a bangin' new haircut.
When Chris suggested that I take some time to myself last night, I thought that I would either get a pedicure or a haircut. My pedicure history is sketchy. Therefore, I opted for a haircut ~ something I can't possibly do at home.
It had been six months since my last haircut so I shouldn't have to state the obvious that it was greatly needed.
There is a sale at Winn Dixie this week on crab legs. Perhaps this will be our compromise: seafood without cruelty since the crab's body has already been removed from its legs. We wouldn't be the ones responsible for any pain or death imposed upon the creature.
And the only sauce required for crab legs is melted butter...something I can totally handle. Even tonight.
I just know that tonight, when the kids finally go to bed, I will feel like breaking open a bottle of champagne. Alas, there is only a small bottle of vodka in the freezer.
So, as Mr. Smith, a.k.a. Brad Pitt, so eloquently said in one of my favorite movies (Mr. & Mrs. Smith), "Champagne is for celebrating. I'll have a martini."