I have decided that I do indeed have a boiling point. A screech along the lines of "Moooommmyyy!!!" will get me there in a hurry. This afternoon I encountered a very interesting (albeit frustrating) exercise (to put it nicely) where I found myself in somewhat of a "split-personality" or "out of body" situation -- where I reached a boiling point of volcanic proportions while maintaining a strange, detached viewpoint, watching myself through it all. I did not possess the powers to stop myself from feeling what I was feeling, or (most unfortunately) expressing what I expressed, but nonetheless I found it somewhat oddly fascinating (and exhausting) to watch my afternoon unfold. But enough of the intro (and parentheses) ...
At some point during my almost-ready-to-have-kids stage of life, a friend of mine told me that having two kids was really no different than having one, that the "wives' tale" of having double the work was false, and that actually it was easier having two kids than one. A few years into this gig now, I'll agree with the last point of her statement -- in some ways it is indeed easier -- but I heartily disagree on the second. The work is indeed doubled -- double the amount of laundry produced, double the amount of food consumed, double the amount of decibels screeched throughout the house. And most definitely double the amount of needs that must, must, must be met.
One aspect of my role as mother to these two particular children is that any to-do list I create might as well just be scribble paper. On Monday, the primary asterisked item was "do the dishes!" That was, as I said, Monday. The day came and went, and the dishes remained. Tuesday surfaced, and the dishes not only stayed put but also multiplied. Today is Wednesday, and at 4:00 p.m. I stood in my kitchen feeling like I was being swallowed whole. The table was full of who-knows-what, the groceries from this morning's shopping remained bagged, lined up around my kitchen like chunky yellow soldiers. My only workable countertop -- 18" total -- was filled with dishes. I had no stove, for it too became the resting place of pots and pans needing a good scrubbing. The sink was filled to faucet level, and the worktable played host to a few overflow pieces that had nowhere else to go. It's horrible, I know (my mother is now starting to feel the onset of cardiac arrest as she's reading this post -- I can hear the rasps through the floor boards), but every moment of every day since Monday's demand of "do the dishes!" has been filled up with ... KIDS. Sickness, school, laundry, school, fighting, school, other kid messes, school, impromptu cupcakes for an impromptu birthday, fighting again. You get the idea. Dishes tend to pile up under dire circumstances, and unfortunately each day seems to dawn as a dire circumstance as of late.
I now had no stove, which means if I don't do the dishes we can't eat, because that would mean I would now have to start shuttling dirty dishes to other parts of the house, and I do have some scruples. The clock flashed 4:00 p.m. (I would write "the clock struck" but what clock strikes anymore?!). Aidan's computer time was up and the kids were shoo'd outside. I picked up my lime green scrubby thing in my right hand and took a deep breath. I reached for --
"Moooommmmyyy!!!!"
I closed my eyes. I took another deep breath. I walked to the back door, lime green scrubby thing still in hand. There was some dilemma with a ball.
I walked back to the sink. I reached for --
"Moooommmmyyy!!!"
My teeth involuntarily clenched together. I think I might have cussed in my brain somewhere. I could feel tension slowly creep like sinister tentacles into my shoulders. "What?" I yelled out the window. There was some dilemma with the slide.
Phew. The water is at least running now. Oh, wait, the dishes are piled right up to the faucet; it's too crowded to wash anything. I looked at my 18" counter to my left, moved a few things around to make room, and took as much out of the sink as I could. OK. I turned the water back on.
"Nooooo, GRACE!"
OK -- I'll let that go.
"Nooooo, GRACE!"
Ignore, ignore, ignore, ignore, ig --
"NOOOOOO, GRACE!!!!"
I'm not even sure what that one was about anymore, it's all starting to blur. But I did yell. I'd say we're on a good simmer about now. Back to the sink. At least I now have some soap on the sponge, and three coffee mugs are on the drying rack. Time to tackle a bowl, and then --
"Ooowwwww! Grace! Stop it!"
This is how my afternoon went. They needed watermelon, and by the time I cut it all up, put it on plates, sent them outside, and got back to the dishes they were back inside, crowding me, finished with their watermelon, now wanting Cheez-its. Then a drink. Outside, then back in. Back and forth. A dish, a scream, a plate, some spitting, a pot, then crying. Back and forth. I boiled, big time. I threatened. I yelled. Yes, it got so bad that I even spanked, which means some hard-core missteps were taken on their parts. Each whine, each screech, each scream was laid brick-and-mortar-like, filling me up entirely until I was about ready to freak out myself. I think I did, maybe. I'm not sure anymore.
I don't think I will ever, ever understand how you can so completely and fully love these little creatures, yet at the same time have moments like these where they drive you absolutely crazy, to the point of feeling intense anger and resentment and this fierce need to run away and who knows what else, bubbling along in a frenzy in the pot called "me." I have never, ever in my life experienced such complexity.
5:20 p.m. -- over a full hour later, I finally wash the last knife and put my lime green scrubby thing back in its holder. A full hour and then some, the knowledge of which made me want to scream. It shouldn't have taken that long. It wouldn't have taken that long had my kids not been ... kids. If they played with their toys instead of purposefully going out their way to annoy each other, the dishes would have been done. If they had done something constructive instead of purposefully needling each other, I wouldn't be on the brink of some explosion.
Then with weary eyes and slumped shoulders, I looked at the stove. It was covered with ... well, I'm not sure. But in order to eat I would now have to exert time and energy I did not have into cleaning the stove first (before crapping it up again with dinner-to-come). As silly as this might sound, I wanted to cry. This kind of thing just builds, and builds, and builds. I didn't cry, though. I looked at the fridge instead. There, hanging on the side by a Bob the Tomato magnet was a flier from our local pizza joint. It's Customer Appreciation Week. This week is "Hero Week" ... how ironic.
Instead of reaching for the Lysol, I looked in my wallet. It's a good thing I saved up a little babysitting money (boy, do I sound like a teenager now?!). I picked up the phone.
"Honey? Feel like being an appreciated customer tonight? I sure do. It's Hero Week."
Yes. Ironic. In so, so many ways.
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