Outnumbered Two to One

Most of the time, I’m a reasonable parent. I get down to kid level, I explain, I reason, I reassure in a calm, even tone until I am blue in the face. Most of the time, I’m that mother.

Other times, I speak sternly through clenched teeth, my eyes bulging slightly out of their sockets, as I struggle to keep my cool.

Even other times, I shout.

I’m not proud of it. I know it’s not necessarily productive, but certain situations warrant top of the lung vocalizations. Know what I mean?

Today, it just happened to come while I was trying to mop my floor. (Feel free to admire my domestic prowess.)  Halfway through my cleaning spree, my delightful toddler wakes from his nap and decides in his sweet little head that trying to put his face in my dirty water bucket is a grand idea. So everytime I wring out the mop and turn my back to swipe at a section of sticky floor tiles, he is behind my back leaning dangerously into the filthy liquid, intent on gulping down loads of the stuff.

“Quit it, get away from there, go sit on the sofa,” I say calmly and evenly the first time.

By the fifth time I’m losing my marbles, trying to catch him without him slipping backward on the wet floor, shouting and waving my mop stick while he pitches a shrieking fit.

Did I mention our across the street neighbors have been trying to sell their house for months? Did I mention they recently had to drop their price by almost $100 grand? Did I mention they were showing their house to a prospective buyer when our house erupted in noises akin to those of a bad 80s slasher flick?

Yeah.

My husband was outside unloading his truck and bearing shameful witness to the whole thing. The buyers, the neighbors, everyone looking up in fear and concern.

I was more than a little humiliated.

Really though, I did them a favor, giving them a realistic glimpse of life on our block. Better now, than after the closing, right?

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