Author Archives: BananaWheels

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About BananaWheels

Sometimes I blog about parenthood. Sometimes I blog about toilets. And sometimes the two are the same.

Long time no see

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And then I never wrote another blog post again. The End.

Or at least that’s what I was starting to think. Life has been kicking my ass over the last month. Something had to give. So I abandoned the blog and all related forms of social media to focus on the here and now. It’s been aaaalllll real, baby.

Like the day I woke up and found ants in my marshmallow bag. That’s not a euphemism. My favorite ants mounted a retaliation attack, and this time they invaded my kitchen cupboards. I hate those little bastards so much. On the upside, it forced us to finally buy some extra shelves from IKEA to serve as a pantry. I don’t want to exaggerate, but these shelves are the single greatest invention of all time. I had no idea how much better life could be with adequate kitchen cabinet space. WHY DIDN’T SOMEONE TELL ME THIS. Amazing.

We also had fruit flies, which led to me getting my head stuck in fly paper, which led to dead flies and glue stuck in my hair for a week. So that was neat. And there are enormous spiders in our house. So I pretty much hate nature right now.

Blah blah but the main thing that has left me reeling is that my daughter started kindergarten on Monday. This? This just may be my demise. I can’t tell who is more exhausted – me or her.

There are a few areas of parenthood that come naturally to me. Like loving them. But there are a few areas of parenthood that are so challenging for me. Like feeding them. I have to dig deep – I mean reeaaallly deep – to plan and prepare meals. Packing a healthy lunch for her every day requires serious thought on my end. Not to mention the need to feed her a good breakfast AND dinner. And the wild card that I had totally forgotten about – AFTER SCHOOL SNACKS. She is starving every day when she gets home, probably because she eats lunch at 10:55. I was woefully underprepared for this (due in part to the fact that we threw out 95% of our food with the antpocalypse).

So this week has felt like all I have done is plan or prepare a meal. Why is that? It’s not like I wasn’t feeding my children before this. Or was I? I don’t know. I just hope this part gets easier.

I’m also really enjoying the boatloads of paperwork that the school sends home. I have  paperwork aversion issues. Somehow signing a simple form is really taxing for me. “Oh NO – do I need to write my phone number AND look up my insurance number? Me so tired. I’ll just set it aside and do it never later never.” I’ve already lost four forms I was supposed to return.

But the real humdinger came Wednesday – Day 3 – when my daughter peed her pants in the middle of class. She was holding it in, which is sort of her thing – wait until it’s an all out 911 emergency – and the dam broke in the middle of story time and she peed all over herself and the carpet. Of course I hadn’t sent any extra clothes, so she had to borrow clothes from the nurse. It was 90 degrees out, and they put her in a pair of thick boys’ sweatpants that were 3 sizes too big, and big black boy tennis shoes.

So help me, the look on her face when I picked her up was enough to shatter my heart into a million pieces. She walked right into my arms and gave me the saddest hug I’ve ever gotten. It was all I could do not to cry on the spot. Apparently other kids laughed at her when it happened, which is the worst thing to hear when your kid is adjusting to a whole new world. And I felt like a piece of shit mom for not thinking to put a change of clothes in her locker. Girlfriend was so sweaty and miserable in those big ugly boy clothes.

Gah the whole thing still bums me out hard, but fortunately I think she is recovering well. Unfortunately she told me exactly which four girls were being mean and laughing at her, so now they will forever be devil children in my eyes. Just kidding. Mostly.

I am exhausted and hoping next week is a tad easier. I do feel sort of studly now that I have a kid in ‘real’ school. It’s like moving up from the JV team to the Varsity squad (not that I would know). No more gallivanting off on spontaneous family getaways mid-week (not that we ever did this anyway). No more dropping her off or picking her up from preschool whenever I please. Now we have a legit commitment. A schedule to adhere to. Academic shackles that bind us. Lil homey haz to learn, yo!

So I guess what I’m wondering is, do I get some sort of letterman jacket for this accomplishment? A secret password to an exclusive parenting club? At least a participation ribbon??? Because I need something to keep me motivated. I’m not sure I have the chops for the big leagues. And I can only rely on my mom hair to fool people for so long. Peace out, Week 1.

Tick tock goes the alarm clock

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Sweet Betty I am struggling to keep up with life as we round the bend toward the end of summer.

Kindergarten hasn’t even begun yet and I am already worn out by it. Seriously what the hell is up with school supplies? How is it possible that my child does NOT need pencils for school, but she DOES need paper plates, plastic baggies (two sizes) and baby wipes. Sounds more like a meth lab than a classroom. I bought the pencils anyway, because even a meth lab needs good writing utensils to track production and purchase orders. That’s how you buy drugs, right? Fill out a purchase order?

We went to a kindergarten kick-off play date the other night and I naively told the PTA president that I might be interested in joining. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but I think it might be my new Mom Hair.

Speaking of which, I gave my family the big middle finger and got another haircut tonight. That’s right, bishes. CUT IT MOAR. This version is actually shorter than the first one. So short, in fact, that my stylist had to shave my neck, which I swore I would never again allow. Bzzzz. My husband and daughter have both already made negative comments about it, so I think I’ll return tomorrow and get the sides shaved. Bzzzz. DO NOT PROVOKE ME.

I am actually looking forward to the structure and routine that kindergarten will bring to our lives. Don’t tell anyone, but for the past year and a half, I have not set my alarm clock. Not once. And it has been the greatest year of my life. Not just because of the alarm clock thing (although c’mon, that’s been rad). It’s been amazing to spend this time with my kids and just live life day by day.

I’ve discovered that I’m pretty good at living in the moment. When I had a crazy job with high demands, I often assumed I was a Type A personality. Because that’s what it takes to live that lifestyle. Go go go!

But as it turns out, I think I am more of a B-/C+ personality. I don’t really mind if I don’t shower. I enjoy wearing the same two outfits all week. No stress! I rarely have a plan for the day when I wake up. Many days I don’t even know what I’m making for dinner until 4:30. As my husband can attest, it shows.

I have been riding the wave and loving it, but I must admit that I’m ready for a bit more discipline in my life again. So I’ve been on an organizational bender, buying new calendars, storage bins, and alas – using my alarm clock again. I’m learning how to pack lunches (how many PB&J’s can a child eat in a week before she OD’s?) and heaven forbid, I even made a casserole earlier this week AND FROZE AN EXTRA ONE FOR LATER. BAM! Suck it, Martha.

I have no doubt that I will crash and burn by the end of Week 1 once school starts. But at least I’m going into with some momentum and a hairstyle that says, “My child is an honor student.” Or maybe, “I have 50 cats under my bed.” Whatever. I need to stop blogging now – only 6 hours until my alarm goes off!

I always feel like somebody’s watching me

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My in-laws left yesterday and I am proud to say that I successfully avoided all discussion of my sewing, or lack thereof, for nine days. Please hold for a moment while I breathe an enormous sigh of relief.

But as I was dodging the sewing bullet from my mother-in-law, I realized there’s another element to these in-law visits that tends to keep me on edge.

One of my father-in-law’s favorite pastimes – especially since he retired – is to stalk his children using technology. He subscribes to every blog or YouTube channel we create. He friends or follows us in every social media forum. Seriously, you are retired and I am unemployed. Do we need to connect on LinkedIn?? He is very familiar with where we, and our neighbors, park our cars thanks to Google Maps. He even set up Google Alerts so he knows any time we are mentioned online. He is an Internet hunter, and we are his prey.

Confession: my father-in-law’s aggressive online tracking is one reason I don’t use my full name with this blog. Most of my family doesn’t even know that I have a blog, but if anyone would find it, it’s him.

My father-in-law’s surveillance is all in the name of harmless fun, and because he loves to stay connected to his faraway spawn. I can’t say I blame him – Lord knows I will probably start stalking my kids online by the time they are 10.

But occasionally I get uncomfortable with his technology exploits. Like the time I discovered that he had posted photos of me in my pajamas, with bedhead and pillow face, in a public online photo album, and then proceeded to tag me in them for all the world to see. Not exactly the image you want your current or future employer to find when they Google you.

So when he visits, I am always a wee bit aware that anything I say or do might be seen, heard, recorded, and/or shared.

As an active oversharer myself, I am fully aware of the hypocrisy here. Who knows – maybe I’m just threatened and it’s like an alpha dog conflict. Only it’s alpha internet users.

Fortunately I think I avoided any major Invasions of Privacy on this trip. (Kids are such a great distraction for curious in-laws.) Then again, it’s impossible to know for sure, because occasionally he’ll surprise you. Like the other night when he hooked his camera to the TV for the required end-of-vacation-photo-show. One of the photos was a lovely image of the landscape – trees, water, boats. We all agreed it was nice.

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Then my father-in-law got a glimmer in his eye and said, “Now watch this.” He proceeded to zoom in on the photo as far as he could, and revealed that he had actually captured my husband and I in the photo, standing far far away on a dock, where we thought we were alone. It’s not like we were naked or picking our noses (as far as you know), but I was a tad caught off guard to see that he had been watching us.

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To my father-in-law, this type of ‘gotcha’ is innocent and fun and a cool way to harness the power of today’s technology.

To someone like me, who tends to be a bit more private (except when I’m divulging my innermost thoughts on the internet), it’s a reminder that the world has changed and I need to save my naked nose picking for my kitchen car bedroom bathroom.

*Editor’s note: Body parts depicted in my drawing are not sized to scale (i.e., my boobs are not that big).

How to kickstart an exercise program

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Step 1: Decide to go for a walk with your 5-year-old while she rides her bike. She only recently started to ride it after months of resistance, and is still on training wheels, so tell yourself that she’ll be slow and easy to keep up with.

Step 2: Because this will be leisurely, wear a large backpack, a floppy sunhat, and put your other kid in your slow-moving umbrella stroller.

Step 3: Go to the most populated walking path in the city on a Saturday morning, because crowded areas are perfect for entry-level bike riding.

Step 4: Give your child a gentle push to get started, and watch as she takes off at speeds of 25-30 mph with no fear, hesitation, or looking back to find you. Realize immediately that you need to haul ass and run in order to avoid losing your child, who shows no signs of slowing down whatsoever.

And thus began my Saturday morning, panting like a dying dog, with my enormous backpack flapping against my sweaty back, pushing my rickety umbrella stroller in and around, up and down, as I raced desperately to keep my child within my sight for three miles.

I often joke that I’d only run if a murderer is chasing me. But honestly I suspect even then I might give up and stop. Because seriously, running? No thank you. Just kill me.

But little did I realize that if I am the chaser, not the chasee, I may actually manage to run for more than 5 minutes. Because nothing propels your body forward like watching your child bob and weave between throngs of runners, dog walkers, roller bladers, kidnappers and serial killers – always dangerously close to escaping your field of vision.

This was about as close as I got.

I have no doubt that to passersby I looked slightly panicked, rather ill-prepared, and extremely out of shape. I was like the crazy lady running to catch her plane in the airport, with one hand on my hat while screaming “SLOW DOWN!” and then gasping to catch my aging, depleted breath.

There were moments when my daughter got far enough ahead of me that I could see other people pass her and wonder, Why does this small child not have an adult with her? Then they would eventually pass me and chuckle.

More than once I felt light-headed, and realized it would’ve been wise to drink water before I left the house instead of that extra cup of coffee, which was now seeping out of my sweat glands in small caffeinated crystals.

In my darkest moments, when I felt certain I was about to pass out and die, I worried that I should’ve taped my husband’s cell phone number to my children’s backs. Lesson learned for next time.

Needless to say it was an effective, albeit uncomfortable, way to re-motivate myself to exercise. It also felt a bit like that symbolic parenting experience – watching with delight and fear as my child learned a new skill, realized she didn’t need me, and then took off like a bat out of hell enjoying her newfound independence. I loved it even though I hated it.

When I met up with my husband afterward, the first words he said were, “You have a sweat mustache.” Thank you, dear, for noticing. Honestly I’m just glad I wasn’t wearing flip-flops, because Lord knows I would’ve broken a wankle.

Sew what have you been up to?

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HELP. My mother-in-law is coming to visit on Friday. It just occurred to me that I have not sewn anything – NOT. ONE. THING. – since my initial success with doll pants and a tiny toy bin. I can’t even remember how to thread my bobbin. (Is it just me, or do I sound kind of macho when I talk about my bobbin?)

At a minimum, I’ll dust off that $400 sewing machine she bought me so it doesn’t look quite so neglected. But I know she’ll want to see other signs of progress. I’m thinking I can throw a few fabric scraps on the floor, wear a measuring tape around my neck, and tell her I’m working on something “really big.”  I’ll also randomly measure everyone’s inseam because I specialize in awkward and overkill. Should be a great week.

That’s right, WEEK. Not a weekend. Not even a long weekend. No, no. We’re talking about an extended week here, people. The in-laws are flying right by the sacred one-week mark and staying two more days beyond that. Because why the hell not? So I’ve got 9 days of lies ahead of me. NINE DAYS.

I can’t really be held responsible for my actions during that amount of time. I can generally keep it together and make conversation for 4, 5, or even 6 days. But 9? What more is there to say? How many times can we talk about the garden or the weather? At some point we will HAVE to discuss my sewing.

I’m worried that in a moment of desperation, I’ll break down and show her Creepy Baby. “Hey, look what I made! It’s a ski mask that I cut out of a sock and put on a doll and then I take pictures of it and write about it on the internet and I need therapy.”

Poor Baby

My best friend meets my worst enemy

She’ll probably try to have me committed. Rightfully so. Rightfully sew.

Summer is not the season for blogging

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Whoo boy I am finding it hard to blog lately. The weather has been amazing so I’ve been outside cavorting with the kidfolk. Unfortunately this subjects me to greater risk of injury because I am a delicate flower. Last week I stepped off a ledge in our yard in my flip-flops and twisted my left ankle. Then I stepped off a different ledge thirty seconds later, and proceeded to twist my right ankle. I have determined that I have weak ankles, or ‘wankles,’ as I shall call them to enhance my sex appeal.

Speaking of wankles, one time I broke a man’s ankle when he picked me up on the dance floor. He lifted me up, and his ankle buckled under the pressure and snapped. He was on crutches for weeks. Surely he had wankles. Surely.

Speaking of not blogging, lately I spend my evenings playing ladder toss in the yard. With family, with friends, or with my husband after we put the kids to bed. I dare say it’s our Game of Choice for Summer 2013.

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I like it because there is very low risk of a wankle injury. There are also lots of opportunities to say things like, “Who has the blue balls?” and then wait for me someone to snicker like a 12-year-old. If you come to our house this summer and don’t want to play ladder toss, prepare to sit alone and stare at the walls. And maybe pick up that mess in the kitchen, will you?

Speaking of food I’m stuffing in my face this summer, we’ve eaten what I believe the southern folk call a ‘low country boil’ four times in the past two weeks. My mom became a fan of it in Texas and introduced us to it. Yeehaw. Talk about a dish that suits my skill level – stuff a bunch of potatoes, corn, sausage and shrimp in a pot and voila! This is similar to the recipe she uses, plus onion and lemon. It’s great for hosting guests, and pairs perfectly with Coors Light and ladder toss (we keep it classy up in here).

Speaking of things I like this summer, I know I’m way late on this one – as is usually the case with me – but holy smokes Alabama Shakes is a good band. The singer’s voice is so badass I have a mega lady crush on her.

Well, I guess that’s all I have for now. I still vow to try and stop writing long-winded incoherent posts, but until the rain returns and my wankles are safely under wraps in wool socks and boots, this might be all I can muster. Viva la summer!

The week in review

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The neighbor kid left on a 5-week trip with her family this week. I confess I’m grateful for the break. In the past week she invited herself over for dinner multiple times, made a mess of my deck with a craft-project-turned-nightmare, told my daughter that freckles are ugly, and took the liberty of explaining to my child the concept of ‘slavery’ (worst history lesson I’ve ever heard). Maybe it’s just my freckles talking, but I’m hoping they enjoy their trip so much they extend it.

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I went shopping this week for the first time in forever. Apparently these pants, and others like it, are now in style:

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Who is responsible for this? Had I known, I would’ve just stayed home and sewn my own pants out of old pillowcases. Also, I don’t understand fashion.

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For Father’s Day I gave my husband a trash grabber. You know, one of those giant picker-upper sticks that you always wonder, Who the hell has one of those things? Now we do.

It was one of the most well-received gifts I’ve ever given him. He practically leapt out of his seat when he saw it. I think he even started clapping. Granted, this is the man who gave me a battery charger and recycling bins for our first Christmas together (romance!), so perhaps his definition of a ‘great gift’ is slightly askew from the norm.

Now we spend our evenings walking around the neighborhood picking up trash. My daughter plays the role of Garbage Scout, running ahead to find wrappers, scraps, and if we’re lucky – the discarded contents of an entire Jack in the Box meal. By the way, WHO are the people in this day and age who finish their meal and then toss the rest out the window?! I guess they are my neighbors, that’s who.

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If you are in the market for a family activity and/or gift and/or reason to make your neighbors stare at you, I highly recommend a trash grabber. Yes, it teaches kids to care for the environment, and that is wonderful. But it also offers the opportunity to teach them about the dangers of things like smoking, drinking and sex. We’ve already found countless cigarette butts, a few beer cans, and I am dreading the day we encounter a used condom. By now you are probably asking yourself – Where the hell does she live? A dumpster? Apparently yes, I do.

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Remember when I said I was attempting to start a garden? Well guess what. I did it and it’s actually growing! The other night we enjoyed a tasty salad using garden-fresh lettuce.

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We also added beef to it because we are not rabbits. (apologies to any vegetarian readers)

Seriously if I can successfully cultivate a garden, anyone can. I have accidentally pulled out crops when I meant to pull weeds, and I routinely ask questions like, “So where’s the part we can eat?” I am clueless. But it’s been surprisingly easy.*

*My husband did the hard stuff. He also made the salad. I am just taking credit for it all because he doesn’t have a blog.

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I had 1 good hair day this week out of 7, so this new cut is really working for me. My husband may or may not have said I looked like a Muppet the other day. He may or may not have been right. He also may or may not wake up to discover a trash grabber clamped on his man bits if he doesn’t ease up on the hair commentary.

Let’s keep talking about my hair

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Damnit I love you people for supporting my haircut without even seeing it. Which of course makes me wonder – what if I post a photo and you see it and think, “Holy shit her family was right. That is awful.”

You should know that I have a history of sketchy hair decisions. For instance The Mushroom of 1994.

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Look at those two cuties next to me with their silky, flowy hair and normal height. When you are the tallest of your friends and you have a flat chest, one way to make extra sure you are the least attractive is to cut off all of your thick hair and leave a nice roundish bowl on the top. Take a number, gentlemen.

At least we all had the same killer sense of style. I believe we were on our way to work in the cafeteria. Did I mention I was super cool in college?

Aaaanyway.

I’ve had some time to recover and think about my hair situation. While I do not condone my family’s reaction, I think Leigh Ann nailed it when she reassured me via tweet: “People who can’t handle change: men and children.” Yes. This. Truth.

I have also realized that this new haircut does not suit my ‘I rarely wash my hair’ lifestyle. The Day 2 version of this hairstyle is bad. B-A-D. Half flat and puffy. Half wavy and puffy. No shape, other than looking like a helmet. In fact it looks legitimately crooked. In the interest of proving my point, I took this unfortunate photo:

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I mean, honestly. If you saw that coming at you in a dark alley, you know you would run the other way. I considered wearing a hat to cover that mess, but I could barely squeeze it over my hair and it just made me look like a guy with a mullet.

But then yesterday I think I had a breakthrough. I washed it, used an assortment of anti-frizz/pro-curl/anti-move/pro-bankruptcy hair products, dried it with a diffuser for a few minutes, and sat very still for the next 30 minutes. A routine that is very conducive to being with small children all day.

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I think it was presentable. I even got a few compliments at my daughter’s preschool graduation. To which I calmly replied, “Iloveyouwillyoumarryme?”

So in the end I may need to start showering more, which would really be a win-win for everyone. Or I will get some new hats.

Note: I don’t know what’s wrong with my face either. Apparently I am incapable of taking a ‘selfie’ with a normal smile on my face.

My unforgivable haircut

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I got a haircut on Saturday. I went to a new guy. Here’s how it went.

“Do you think I can pull off the Anne Hathaway pixie look?” I ask. “No,” he replies. “I hate you but I appreciate your honesty,” I think to myself.

I share my desire to go short, despite the limitations of my thick, frizzy, wavy, hair. He assures me that it’s possible if he stops at the chin. “Let’s do this,” I say. I want to give him a high-five, but I hold back.

I immerse myself in an issue of People Magazine. Hot damn it feels good to be free of my parenting responsibilities, even if just for 40 minutes.

When I’m done, I text my husband to come get me. I’m feeling spunky and rejuvenated with my new shorter ‘do. No hesitations whatsoever. Hey world – look at me!

I sit outside to wait for my ride. Five minutes later my husband pulls up. He takes one look at me, then floors it and speeds away down the street without me.

I know he’s joking and I laugh, but I also know he is genuinely shocked. Little do I know that this haircut is about to send my family into an emotional tailspin.

The moment I open the car door, my 5-year-old screams, “I HATE YOUR HAIR! WHY DID YOU CUT IT SO SHORT?!” She then starts to cry and throw a fit.

My husband doesn’t fare much better. He glances at me briefly with his eyes open wide, but the rest of the ride he is unable to look at me. It’s clear that he is intentionally avoiding any eye-to-hair contact.

When I try to engage, he tells me that he “isn’t ready” to look at my hair. He claims that I “didn’t really prepare” them for the change. He then puts his hand over his heart and says he is feeling pain “right here,” and then I hear him say in a hushed voice, “Your hair was my favorite thing about you.” He is using humor in an attempt to mask his disappointment, but it’s not really working.

We go to the grocery store. My husband, still unable to make eye contact, requests that we divide the shopping list and split up, which will also give him time “to process” the reality of my hair. Sure, dear – whatever you need.

My daughter protests and whines the entire time. In every aisle she moans, “WHY did you cut it so short?! WHEN will it grow back???” She tries to get me to buy her popsicles as compensation for the pain I’ve caused. I do not comply.

As I am unloading the groceries at home, she comes around the corner and asks, “Did your hair grow back yet??” She is truly disappointed that it hasn’t. She sulks into the corner and whimpers like an injured animal.

After a lunch filled with awkward glances from my husband and more disparaging words from my daughter, I seek refuge in the only comforting place I can find – the arms of my non-verbal, non-judgmental toddler. She smiles and hugs me, so I shower her with extra kisses and whisper in her ear, “I love you the most today.”

I then take my older daughter to see a play being put on by the local elementary school. They are performing the musical “Annie.” The tone-deaf, out-of-key voices are a welcome reprieve from the wail of my child’s complaints. I look at the young girl playing Annie, with her Richard Simmons-like wig, and wonder, Is that what I look like? Is this some kind of metaphor?

Later that evening the signs of my family’s PTSD appear to be waning. My husband says he has some complimentary things to say about my hair, but then he gets distracted and never says them. My daughter informs me that she is “starting to like” my haircut. “Well, actually,” she then backtracks. “I don’t really like it, but I don’t totally hate it either.”

You are so good to me, family. What have I done to deserve such love and adoration.

As I prepare myself for bed, I fear the wrath that may come in the morning when my daughter sees my new bedhead, which I can already tell is going to be…puffy…and short.

It then occurs to me that convicted murderer Jodi Arias likely has more support from her family than I do for committing the heinous crime known as A Haircut. Don’t ever cut your hair, Jodi Arias. If that jury is anything like my family, they’ll sentence you to death for it.

Here is a drawing my daughter made of my haircut. I do not wear bows in my hair, but I imagine she added it in a desperate attempt to make me look more feminine.

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I felt this drawing was a tad extreme – it’s not THAT short – so I requested another. She then made this one, in which it appears she has given me a case of pink eye – probably to punish me.

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Little does she know that if she doesn’t stop complaining, I am going to return to that hairdresser and request the Anne Hathaway just to spite her.

My children are fluent in English, Gibberish, and Screamish

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My kids are almost four years apart – 5 and 17-months – so to date, their relationship has mostly entailed my older daughter trying to poke, hug, squeeze or pick up her baby sister until we stage an intervention. All in all, it’s been pretty manageable.

But now we are entering a phase where they are starting to play together more, which is of course awesome and so enjoyable to witness. However I am realizing there is a new parenting skill that I have yet to master – which is the ability to understand the international language of siblings, also known as CONSTANT AND UNNECESSARY SCREAMING.

Seriously. What the hell.

I’ve noticed this never-ending ROAR whenever I’m around my friends who have multiple children. It never ceases to surprise and amaze me how the screaming is like white noise to them. They just carry on like nothing is happening, while the kids are seemingly screaming bloody murder in the background. No big deal.

But when you only have one kid, or one + a baby, the Sibling Scream phenomenon is foreign and can be truly jarring.

Last weekend we were at the home of friends who have a 4- and 6-year-old. My 5-year-old had a blast tearing around the house with them, unleashing her inner wild animal. I have no idea what they were doing, other than what sounded like a non-stop game of Who Can Scream Loudest.

At first I found it hard to relax. Are they injuring one another? Should I go check on them?? But I noticed that our friends seemed totally unphased by it, so surely this must be the norm.

Then the children came running upstairs like a herd of elephants and raced into a bedroom. I saw the 6-year-old standing outside the door screaming like a banshee – what’s new? – so I continued to sip my cocktail and chat. Suddenly my husband launched out of his chair and ran over to the boy, realizing that in fact his finger had been shut in the door, and his scream was one of HOLY MOTHEREFFER I AM IN PAIN.

I seriously had no idea that this scream was any different from all the rest. I couldn’t help but wonder if my virgin ears are not yet attuned to the screams of play vs. danger. Is one piercing, and the other more guttural? Is one higher-pitched? Longer maybe?

Either way that poor kid probably thinks I’m a heartless monster the way I just sat there doing nothing as he writhed in agony.

I just learned that this kid actually broke his finger that day. Well done, Amy. Sit idly by while innocent children shatter their bones in your midst.

The whole scream thing was on my mind after this incident, but then the next day I let my kids play downstairs while I tried to get a few things done. This is a relatively new thing for us – letting them play together without parental oversight in the same room.

Every other minute someone was screaming.

At first I assumed the worst and raced down the stairs expecting blood, injury or death. DEARGOD WHO HAS BEEN HARMED?! SHOULD I CALL 911? I DON’T KNOW HOW TO MAKE A TOURNIQUET!!

Turns out they were just tickling each other. While screaming. Back upstairs.

The next time it was a toy-related altercation. Which now happens constantly. Back upstairs.

And so on. I went up and down the stairs 6 times in the span of 10 minutes. Part of the challenge is that the little one only babbles. So I never know what the hell she’s saying anyway, let alone when she starts yelling all the time. Are you enjoying yourself? Is that a scream of pain? No clue. It was just an endless barrage of noise, always turned up to 11.

LET’S PLAY WITH THIS TOY! NO! STOP! DADDADOODEE WHERE IS MY SOCK MAMMA MEH MEH GIVE ME BACK MY SOCK BA BA BA NO! OWWW! I JUST ATE A BOOGER YOU JUST ATE MY BOOGER WHOSE BOOGER IS ON MY FINGER.

Is this now my reality? Will I always be on red alert, or will my blood pressure eventually come down while they play? And does anyone know where I can purchase some earplugs?