Spring break. Day 3.
Restless midgets prowl in basement. Destroy furniture. Eat cereal from the box. Have treasure hunt with 543947463 stray pieces of Lego, which are now under every imaginable object in bungalow. Including restive coonhound who remains unconvinced that blue Lego is not for eating.
Rumors of insurrection lead to hasty withdrawal of carrot sticks and pita chips, rapid substitution (JUST JOKING, KIDS!) of Cheetos and rootbeer. Long-promised, much-dreaded journey to Boston Pizza has left one poor excuse for a mom, three waitresses, a "chef" and a nearby table of HVAC technicians with shattered nerves and chattering teeth. Teenaged niece forced to scribble desperate message on napkin and wave it at two small boys attempting to outdo one another in an ancient gladiatorial technique known to fell grown men at the knees in a matter of seconds:
Look at my eyes, my pasty complexion, the aura of having completely given up. The crazed half smile that says: "Everything IS NOT ALL RIGHT."
Four more days to go.
I hope teachers understand what they've done to mothers all across this country.