Shock Treatment

I like chocolate.

Anyone who knows me and read that just spit their coffee all over their keyboard. It’s kind of an understatement.

Before we got the kids, I bought chocolate. . . frequently.

After we got the kids, I bought it. . . more frequently. Bags of Dove milk chocolate hearts at Valentine’s Day, which I ate out in the car with the doors locked, crying on the phone to CC, asking him when his stupid show was going to stupid open so he would be home again. Dark chocolate Easter Eggs that never made it into Easter baskets. I cleaned up in the candy clearance aisles the day after a holiday with no pretense that it was all for the kids. I started making excuses to run out to the store by myself, and found good hiding places to stash bars and bags. And bags of bars.

The chocolate got darker. It got stronger and far more serious. I was looking for chocolate that bit me back.

These days, I have a bar of Green & Black’s 85% with me at all times and god help us all if that isn’t the case. It is simple, powerful, and it works. I eat it as needed, in one-inch-square pieces.

Every so often though- when I just can’t field another phone call from school, make another dinner nobody will eat, referee another fight- when I would cheerfully trade a kidney for the ability to finish a single thought without being interrupted- at those times, I need something a little bit stronger than Green & Black’s. Something that isn’t chocolate. Yesterday was one of those days.

Yesterday was a Sour Patch Kid day. I love Sour Patch Kids because they are soooo bad for you. They stick in my teeth. They make my eyes water. I eat them until my tongue hurts. Once you hit that point, you feel it for days. Also? The kids love them. They hate my dark chocolate. When I sneak Sour Patch Kids, I have the added bonus of knowing that they would want them, only I’m not sharing. Somehow it makes them even tastier.

We Will Run It Until It Dies

A forty-gallon, sixteen-year-old hot water heater for a family of seven. Five of whom are girls. With long hair.

Weekdays:

CC showers before he leaves by 6:15am every day while he’s in production.

#1 showers before she leaves for school at 7am.

I wrangle #2-5 to get ready for school with varying degrees of success, and make lunches.

High school & middle school run at 8am.

I re-wrangle #4 and #5, sifting through lies about how they brushed their teeth and aren’t wearing the same shirt they wore yesterday.

Elementary school run at 8:30am. This consists of me walking with them to the end of the driveway, waiting for traffic to clear, and nudging them across the street. This is my favorite of the the three school drop-offs.

At this point I usually grab my tea and sit down to write. This is when the dogs come and jump on me until I walk them. We would both save ourselves a lot of trouble if we just skipped the part where I pretend like I’m going to do anything besides pay attention to them. Right now, no one cares if I have bathed or not.

I revel in having the house to myself. I go do stuff.

I forget to shower.

PM:

Depending on the day, it’s either off to work, or pickups, homework, lessons, sports, dinner.

But always, it’s a forty-gallon, sixteen-year-old hot water heater for a family of seven, whose washing machine is always on and whose dishwasher runs three times a day.

#2-5 fight over shower time. Timing is everything. If your timing’s off, you’re standing in a cold shower. Sometimes #1 also vies for an additional shower. I referee.

Storytime. Bedtime. I’m counting them down.

But there’s this insidious development that has been gradually creeping up on me over these past four years. There are now teenagers that are swiping what was previously my midnight shower time.

I totally pulled rank tonight. I assigned chores and slipped into my bathroom when they were occupied. I announced it, of course, or else they’d just get into the other shower and steal all the water.

Sneaky, but I’m clean. Finally.

The Bane of My Existence. . .

Is a duvet cover. Yeah, you heard me.

A shiny, ridiculously expensive, pretty Italian duvet cover- the kind of thing you buy when you’re single, childless, and free from pets.

The kind of thing that loses its closure buttons when puppies wrestle on it, allowing them to then wrestle inside it.

While the down comforter inside slides sadly down, down, down, despite the clips that were supposed to hold it in place and change my life. Those clips are no match for puggles.

That’s it in the middle there. The down comforter. The snaky lump now cutting diagonally across the bed. Prolapsing out the end.

It takes somewhere in the neighborhood of forty-five minutes to reorient the comforter inside the cover. It’s slippery. It’s askew. Those puppies, they think it’s a game. They pounce on the lumps. They try to crawl back inside.

I’m pretty sure they ate the clips.