Am cowering in a closet, listening to loud banging noises coming from one of the children’s bedrooms, where they are busily constructing a weapon of mass destruction.
Really, though, I can’t imagine what’s left to destroy. The living room looks like a toy bomb went off in it. Our long hallway has been elaborately boobytrapped, with scores of plastic GIs waiting to puncture my feet.And Tootie’s room? We will not speak of its condition. It is simply too terrifying.
Now on our second snow day, the children are bored. They are stalking me.
One keeps yelling, “Let’s do the Bobblehead!” before vigorously shaking my head back and forth. The other wants me to help her find a teensy stuffed animal that she thinks was most recently under the tent she made in the living room. Am convinced she wants me to enter the tent, where further torture awaits. By an impressive array of armed and dangerous Pet Shops.
Awhile ago, I called a fellow mama and told her my children were out to get me. She told me that her son’s ADHD medicine ran out right before the snow fell.
My back is still killing me. The children sense my weakness. The only safe place in the house is the coat closet, which is where Hubs will find me upon his return, huddled among the jackets and his musty-smelling hunting gear. If he does not have Chocovine for me, I will tell him he is responsible for catching the children and wrangling them into the bathtub and bed. Must now send out a plea for help on Facebook.