It all started last Saturday. The littles were kind of whiny and coming down with colds, as were we. We could deal with that. Short Pants was so excited about trick-or-treating (meaning, the chance to stuff his mouth full of candy) that we took them downtown (this is a roughly 10 foot square area compromised of 2 gas stations, a Dollar General, a really bad diner, and some houses) in our tiny town to go trick-or-treating. Pita Pocket refused to wear a costume AT ALL, so we had a knight and a cute toddler:
As you can see, the candy eating started even before we were out the door. The boys were *very* tired/whiny that evening, so we put them to bed early and told ourselves things would be better in the morning.
Umm, no. They weren't. At all. It just got worse...day after day after day...till we came to Tuesday.
Let me give you an excerpt from one phone conversation yesterday:
The Mister: "Hello?"
Me: "I am about to Lose. My. Motherbleeping. Mind."
Repeat like 4 times. I honestly fantasized dropping them off at some mythical daycare that would HAVE to take them for the day because I was paying them. I enviously thought about my husband and how damned lucky he was to be sitting in front of a computer at work dealing with people he didn't want to deal with because at least *those* people didn't start crying every 30 seconds to be carried and need their nose wiped. The highlight of the day was playtime outside in a desperate bid to placate my demon spawn. Pita Pocket screamed because he wanted to go on a walk, while Short Pants screamed because he wanted to play in the sandbox.
15 minutes later...I tell the boys that we need to go inside because Mama's brain is about to fall out. Short Pants proceeds to run shrieking through the yard in the opposite direction. Of course, our neighbor is outside working in his yard. Swell. I pick up Pita Pocket and start to lug him into the house. Short Pants refuses to come with me. Better than swell! As I deposit little #2 inside the house I can hear little #1 screaming at the top of his lungs over and over, "Wifey! Wifey! Wifey!" (oh yeah, did I ever mention that for the past almost 3 months he refers to me as "wifey" and never "mommy" anymore? He's heard The Mister call me that one too many times. And yes, I know it's a somewhat silly nickname for my husband to call me, but give me a break here - at least it's not something like "Sexy Gurrl," right?")
So I pick up my Wifey-screaming son and lug him up the stairs and into the house. The entire time he's shrieking like I'm strangling him and I'm thinking maybe I should since the little bugger is also kicking me too.
I'd like to say that then everyone got over it and we were all ok, but I can't. What happened is that Short Pants and Pita Pocket both threw monster fits while I contemplated just how much I could get for them on the black market. Then The Mister arrived home and I said, "Look! It's your daddy!" and ran off upstairs to hide in my craft room. (Oh, and did I mention that now Pita Pocket can scale the gate that keeps my craft room safe from toddlers? Life is good!)
I've started watching the first season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. A recent episode was about a group of kids who somehow got "transpossessed" by a pack of hyenas. I spent all evening trying to figure out just what the hell transpossessed my littles but still haven't figured it out. Currently I'm leaning toward rabid flying monkeys.