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Katy England Katy England
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edge staff writer


In desperate need of spoons, we are stir crazy

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There are some weird songs about rain. For instance:

It's raining/ It's pouring/ The old man is snoring/ He bumped his head upon his bed/ And he couldn't get up in the morning.

I mean, is he OK? Is he brain damaged? Has that old man become a vegetable for the rest of his life because of bad weather? This is pretty much my thought process on days when I can't get the kids outside of the house to burn off some steam. Because on days when it's raining (i.e. every day last week), the kids punish me - they have no one else to take their frustrations on. And likewise, I have no one else to take out my frustrations on. So I simply go nuts.

Like that poor, poor old man.

We're at the point where the kids can express themselves in a very limited sense. 'Up,' 'down,' 'book,' 'all done,' 'more.' You know, fairly typical toddler stuff. But the biggest form of communication that has been happening lately is pointing and whining. The whining, especially if you don't hop-to the nanosecond they point (very vaguely, may I add) to what their heart desires more than anything in the world, perfectly communicates that you are failing to meet their expectations in almost every respect they can fathom.

I've heard people say that I shouldn't wish away some of these times. That we need to enjoy every minute. To those people, I say with respect, mind you come to my house and babysit for a week. Then I'll accept your apology in writing.

And it isn't just rain that can keep you indoors. Oddly enough, it's too much heat. Or a broken lawn mower. Or the inability to find those gosh darn harness sets you know you have in your house that would make it possible for you and your three kids, all under the age of two, to leave the house without killing one of them (maybe). 

And then there's thinks like biting flies and ticks to deal with. Awesome. Because worrying about blood-borne pathogens is something I needed to stress out about on top of the notion that some disgusting vermin has burrowed its head under my child's skin.

And between the kids having a tough time and Mama having a tough time, everyone is tired and cranky. And at least I get drink a beer at the end of the day. I have no idea how the kids cope. Though I think it has something to do with their devotion to their stuffed animals. 

So the next time you see some poor beleaguered parents at a restaurant with screaming kids, just know this: Nothing you can say can make them feel worse. Nothing you can do can make them leave. 


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