Extra Large Meltdown with a Side of Freak Out Please

I might be hormonal, I’m not sure. What you are about to read isn’t pretty.  It is not flattering.  It isn’t even nice in some parts.  I can promise you this… it’s the truth.  I love my kids.  I love my husband.  I love my life. Like I said, I might be hormonal.  Maybe I had too much family together time this weekend.  I’m not sure what my deal is, but here’s what my life felt like today…
Ask the kids to get dressed.  Transmission denied, they are hungry, and must be fed first.
Ask the kids to get dressed again.  No joy, now they are ready to explore the great outdoors…  In a pull-up and a nightgown.  Tell the kids we have company coming.  They get excited.  They run inside to get dressed, only to be distracted by that gigantic blinking/flashing/talking machine which is playing cartoons in our living room. I corral the kids to the stairwell, where I tell them, once again, to get dressed.  I dress myself.  Company comes.  The kids are back downstairs, however, they forgot to get dressed.  I tell them to go upstairs and not to come back down until they are dressed.  Son goes up, daughter goes up.  Daughter goes up in a nightgown and comes back down in only underwear.  At which point I spank her and yell at her to go back upstairs.  I’ve lost my cool.  She makes some excuse about wanting to look for clothes downstairs.  I tell her that there are approximately three pieces of clothing in her laundry basket, and four hundred in her closet.  She can choose from those items, and from nothing downstairs.  She retreats, pitifully, to her room.
I tell the company to have a seat, and I leave them to watch the blinking talk box while I go back upstairs to comfort my daughter, and to check on my son.  Son is picking out a few toys to bring downstairs to play with his company.  He is dressed and ready to go.  I wish him well.  Daughter is in her bed, crying.  I go in to eat crow, and to help her understand why I freaked out.  I apologize first, then explain about modesty.  We hug and she gets dressed.  I concede on the blue Frozen dress that she was hunting for, and toss it up the stairs for her to use. She chooses Capri leggings and a tank top.  The kids come down and ask for their friends to go upstairs.  I do not like the idea, but because they will not stop talking and bringing toys downstairs, and I can not get a word in edgewise with the adult who has come to visit, I concede on the upstairs visitors.  Boys in the boys room, girls in the girls room.  This is the only request I make all day, which surprisingly, my children actually honor without backtalk or struggle.
While the company was here, I enjoyed a bit of grown up conversation, but couldn’t help but wonder what the kids were up to upstairs.  This is never fun for a mom. It is reality for a lot of moms, but it is never fun.  Imagine your browser open in your brain.  It’s like there are 30 tabs for every kid you give birth to, and 30 tabs for every kid that enters your responsibility zone.  And so all those tabs are open, and I’m trying to focus on that one tab that I want, that grown up tab.  Just for a few minutes.  Seven to be exact.  Because that mom has three kids she’s got to be on time to pick up and feed lunch to.  Plus the two that are upstairs in my house.  So both of us adults, with our 242 tabs open, engage in a quick adult conversation.  Nothing too heavy, just enough to catch up from the weekend.  Not even really that.  And just like that, they were gone.  But not before one of the kids asked to stay for while.  Well, my kids needed to clean.  The deal was that they were not going to be able to do any playing until their rooms and the guest room had been cleaned.  By them.  Not me.  But there was a back story about why she wanted to stay, and I wanted to be helpful.  So, we arranged for the darling little girl to come back after lunch to stay for a little bit and play with my kids.  The kids that weren’t supposed to play, but again, I conceded.  And so, my kids ate lunch, put their plates in the sink, and went to play.  And by “play”, I mean fight and argue and “freeze” and “hiyah” and ninja spin and perform “Frozen” spells, and karate moves all over my house from the front door to the back door, from the toilet to the table.  And speaking of the toilet… I hope I remember to tell you about that one later…  The blue dress was donned, as were the white fluffy heels, and I braided her hair, because she asked so nicely, and let’s face it, she’s just not satisfied in her Elsa getup without that stinkin’ side braid!  Their friend came back and they all three played until I told them that it was nap time.  And my children went willingly.  Surprisingly, easily, shockingly, without fuss or fight.  They went to nap.  Only our guest’s mother wasn’t back to get her yet.  Which saddened me because I wanted to take a nap too.  How selfish is that?  Well our sweet guest decided she would take a nap too, so she laid on the couch with a blanket and rested her eyes.  Of course, with those 90 tabs open, I could not rest.  I could not even stop moving for a minute.  Which only served to make me more tired.   And so I sent a text and made a call, and within minutes, mom came and collected her daughter, and I was on my way to sweet slumber…
Except, by that time, Line had woke up, and come downstairs, and used the restroom, and got a drink, and told me about her imaginary friends.  She said she was going back up to bed to sleep, but my super mom powers told me differently.  But I lay back down, and I close my eyes, and I pray for just an hour of sleep.  At 3:41 p.m., that was a very silly thing to do, but it is exactly what I got.  I woke up at 4:30 p.m., and went immediately to the bathroom.  I noticed that Beef’s phone was on top of the counter, and made some comment that he had left it there all day.  I texted myself, to see if it was really his phone, and if it was really working.  Was I really awake?  Hmmmm…. then I started back to the bedroom, where I noticed a little girl in a blue dress with a side braid, quietly sneaking up the stairs.  She stopped moving, turned around and said, “What?” in a semi-pre-teen voice.  I called her down, and asked her what she was doing.  She lied and said that she was using the bathroom, but I knew better, because I was just in there.  But because I was smiling (a snarky smile that she hasn’t yet decoded), she started smiling.  I’m still not sure what she was doing… whether she was really in the bathroom before I was and I just hadn’t heard her, or if she was in the kitchen getting something to eat.  Either way, she was up to something.  We talked, as we walked, into the living room, where Beef sat, quietly in his chair, watching a “man show”.  I asked him why he didn’t wake us up, and he spoke the truth.  Waking up the three of us would be wrath.  When we wake up on our own, we are fine, but when someone wakes us up, we never seem to hit the right side of the bed.  And so, he was making the best move he could have.  And now, it was a quarter to five.
I wanted to hold my baby girl again, before her brother woke up.  So, I took her in my arms and rocked her the way I used to when she was little.  But she isn’t little anymore.  She is growing up so fast.  She is amazingly intuitive.  She knows when something is under the surface.  She may not yet have all the tools to decode it, but she knows its there.  She is intelligent.  She can figure stuff out before any of us know what she’s up to. She is stunning.  And she is beautiful and loving.  But she is also growing out of my arms, out of my boundaries.  And yes, I realize that my two concessions today were not helpful to her or me.  Just so you know, I know.  But this girl is the apple of my eye.  I love her so much because she lives in my life.  And she can sing.  Yes, I complain about it a lot on my Facebook page, but it’s all in good fun, because I really love to watch her sing and dance and pretend that she is Elsa from Frozen.  Because soon, there is a good chance her peers will dissuade her from being who she is. I want her to be secure in herself, in her dreams and goals and desires.   But there is also that side of me, who would like to contemplate something other than the next line from “Let It Go”, I would love to not have these visions of a tall, perfectly shaped, youthful Elsa, spinning wintry webs in a gorgeously snowflake sparkled dress on a floor of ice in a castle far away.  I love how it is fun for her to do this routine.  I do not really care for the way she has been singing it in a new “made up” language.  But I’m sure I’ll figure out a way to get us back to English.  And before I know it, she’s up and gone again.  She’s up to grab her tablet so she could show her daddy what the latest version of the Frozen song she’s been listening to.
And my lap isn’t empty for long.  Fritz has woken, and now fills it with his warm, small-but-stout body.  He has to tell me “someping”.  He wants to tell me about a dream.  Or his imagination.  Something he is making up.  Oh yeah, it’s a girl in his regular school (whatever that is), her name is Kyna (like Kinda – without the d).  I asked about her, he said she punches him in the stomach.  Then he “hiyahs” her back.  I ask him if this is real, or is it a story.  He looks at me, and starts to tell me its a story, but then he changes and says it’s the truth.  I told him that it is okay for him to tell me about Kyna and his regular school, but when he does, he needs to remember to tell me that it’s a story.  It’s okay to tell stories, as long as the people we’re talking to know that they are stories.  Oh those imaginations!  I want them to have them and use them.  I want my children to learn how much creativity they possess and have at their discretion to use!  I want them to fly and grow and change and be whomever they want.  I know that if they can dream it, they will have the determination to see it through!  Plus, he’s very cute when he’s creative!  He lays on me and watches tv, talking mainly about what he sees, and what he thinks.  I tickle him in his armpits, and he laughs.  He has the most contagious giggles!  And just as quickly as he appeared, he too, is gone.  He is off to have some type of ninja turtle/frozen war with his sister.  And she engages.
My foot hurts, again.  After my lap is empty, I noticed that it is back to burning in the heel again.  I’m paying for not wearing the arch support this weekend.  I know it was wrong, but it was muddy, and I was too lazy to take off and put on the full shoe getup every time I went in and out of the camper.  Oh yes, I should also mention that we spent Saturday and Sunday camping.  Together.  In a small camper.  And it rained mostly all weekend.  So we spent it inside that tiny camper.  Back to my foot.  It’s 5:30 now, and I need to get supper on the table so that Beef can keep on his schedule.  Because there is no summer break for farmers.  So, I gimped on into the kitchen, and fired up the oven and skillet.  I made home made pizza while Beef sat in his lazy boy and watched tv.  I’m not sure what night or channel it is on, but it seems like once a week, there is an all day Deadliest Catch marathon.  I used to love Deadliest Catch.  Back when the kids were in bed by 7pm.  Now, especially with this marathon thing… by hour number two, I’m seasick, I feel like I haven’t showered in weeks, I swear I can smell crab meat, I hate the sound of Mike Rowe’s voice, and I want to talk like a sailor.  And so, while I’m gimping in the kitchen, Beef’s lounging in the big chair, and Elsa and the TMNT crew are running amok through the house in some sort of cartoonish war, my mind starts to cook.  For the last hour, no one has asked me if I need any help, no one has checked on me to see if I’m okay.  They have, however, screamed bloodcurdling screams, ran a hot lap through the kitchen, played in the bathroom sink, pooped, needed their butts wiped, tried to clean the toilet with a toothbrush, and fought with each other.  The smells and sounds are overwhelming.  I want to pull my hair out and maybe cry a little.  I want to curl up in another room where it is dark and quiet and there aren’t any small creatures running around about to jump out of the blankets and “hiyah” me!
But alas, there’s still food to finish and set out, there are drinks to be poured and dishes to be done.  There are blessings to be prayed and kids to be wrangled.  And we eat.  Somewhat calmly, the kids are not screaming about a food they dislike tonight.  They apparently are both satisfied with home made pizza.   They have been given chocolate milk, which they both get their own straws to drink with.  They enjoy every gulp of the sweet smooth chocolaty goodness, and then take a bite.  This continues on until Line hits the bottom of her glass.  But wait, there is still more in there, she can see it!  So she continues trying to draw it up the straw.  I feel my blood temperature start to rise.  A small voice in my head reminds me that she is 5.  She is enjoying this experience, she is learning something from this, she just has to be!  After about an honest four minutes of the incessant and extremely annoying slurping, Beef steps in and tells her to stop in no uncertain terms and a voice that booms.  I opt for the more sensible approach, as I’ve used up my crazy off the cuff response in the getting dressed scene from this morning… “Also, just so you know, if anyone were ever to take you to a restaurant, and you slurped through as straw like that, it would be considered extremely rude.”  She took her straw and threw it out after Beef told her to just drink the rest.  And as soon as her blessed straw hit my dishwater, Fritz had come to the point in his cup where the slurping began.  And guess what?  With all that had been said during his sister’s etiquette lesson, he captured exactly zero of it.  I pretended not to hear the sound of the air and chocolate milk mixture as it reverberated up and down the straw, as my sweet child tried to get those last precious droplets to reach his tongue.  I pretended that there was no sound.  I picked up my empty plate, and took it to the sink, to soak.  And I posted my deepest regrets and apologies on Twitter to my parents.  I could not decide whether I wanted to run or whether I wanted to start laughing.  I could just see myself in those dark black curls in a long t shirt or a nightie on the living room floor, playing with toys, talking out loud as Dad was trying to watch the news or his show.  I will tell you that we all knew that when the weather came on, it was a great time to go to the bathroom or otherwise disappear, because if Dad didn’t hear the weather, there was going to be a crap storm in our living room.  No need to predict that forecast – it was a given pattern.  But aside from the weather, I can see us girls, wet hair, wrestling on the couch, mom in the kitchen, trying to get the dishes done, the food put away.  We had no care in the world.  Then I thought about how from the age of 18 till tonight – how desperately I wanted to be my mom.  Just like her.  So loving, kind, patient.  Strong at all times, tough when she needed to be, happy and always a blessing to others.  But tonight, as I was shutting the curtains and pulling the blinds; all I could think was, “Mom, I always wanted to be you, but I never really knew how hard that would be.”  And I think I gave up a little on being like my mom.  Instead, I called her.  She was resting peacefully in the chair, regaining her strength from her day.  I told her I would call her another time, and she asked why.  I let her know that it was a bit crazy in my house.  I told her how sorry I was for all those times they had no peace because I was so wild!  She laughed and asked what was going on.  I gave her a brief synopsis, and then asked her if I could come and spend the night at her house.  She giggled and told me that I could come, but that my kids would miss me.  She said that I was just a normal kid, and that my kids are normal.  She laughed at their antics and said that we would see each other on Friday.  She talks with this sound in her voice, it’s like a hug – only in tone.  It’s amazing the power that my mother has.  And for a second, while I was on the phone, that I thought things might be calming down.  Boy was I wrong.  The kids were doing “gymnastics” on the couch and Fritz hit his head on his plastic firetruck.  Line was still going a hundred miles an hour when I finally called the game.  I told them to get upstairs.  I read to each of them, prayed with each of them, and tucked them in.  And then I came downstairs.  The ringing in my head did not subside.  I took some ibuprofen and waited.  I went ahead and did all the dishes, and as the noise from the kids went away, that stupid talk box got louder.  I could hear the captains of the ships talking about what?  Nothing.  Fish.  Bloody battles with crab pots.  UGH!!! As I’m trying to logistically fit 400 pieces of dishes into a 200 piece drainer, I think about the last time I was treated like a princess for no reason at all.  The last time I was given “a day off”.  Not because I was sick, injured, or otherwise unable to do my “duties”, but just because someone saw all the effort that I put in around here, and looked at me and said, “Today, I am going to take care of you.  You sit, you pick the movie or show.  I’ll rub your feet.  I’ll get you some hot tea.  What would you like to eat?  You pick the place we go.”   The last time that happened was in the 90’s.
After I finished the dishes, I retreated to my chair, and dug in to try to articulate all that has happened today.  I tried to cover my ears, but that didn’t help my typing.  I tried to block out the sounds, but they keep coming back.  So, here I am, trying to make sense of it all with the background noises of today, ringing in my head.  Like I said, I might be hormonal.

Please don’t misinterpret what I’m saying.  I would not, could not ever trade my family.  I love them all so much.  They are a part of me.  A crazy, loud, unfocused, ill prepared, unorganized, untrained, young, adventurous, mysterious, selfish, loving, funny, fun, creative, imaginative, artistic, ruckus, rowdy, willing, inquisitive, generous, paradoxical group that belongs together. This is just a mommy breakdown.  A little hormonal (?) decompression, or a little steam let off.  I’m not sure.  Whatever it is, I hope it’s honest, and maybe a little bit entertaining.  And if it’s not, please, please remember, I might be a little bit hormonal!