Monday ate my good-natured children and left their skins filled with rabid beasts last night.
Their fighting, tantrums and whining would have broken Mother Theresa, I’m sure. There wasn’t a second where one of them was not yelling, crying or whining about something causing visions of National Geographic and giant katsup bottles to fill my head.
After the second, or fifth time of having to sit on the floor to keep them separated I had more than enough. With no wine, no xanax, not even a beer in the house I did what any mother would do. “Do you hear that hun? That sound? The goat MUST be in trouble….” And I ran out the door.
Sweet, sweet, silence.
Somedays I have come up with divine plans on moving in with the goat. She’s soft, she’s warm, she cuddles and she keeps her mouth shut. I could totally become a survivalist, living off the land, all alone in complete silence. Just let me have a gun, a lighter and at least two months worth of coffee.
But they would all find me, most likely before I finished building my hammock of heaven out of twigs and vines.
So I returned back inside, with fire wood of course, so it wasn’t so obvious that I had been running away.
I have 18 more years of this. At least.
I best get started on digging that wine cellar under the goat hut, I have to be prepared.
But dear, sweet minions, mommy has plans, you just wait until you’re old enough… *evil laugh*.