This week has been more than crazy, as I am sure most everyone's has.
Add to that that Brett has been home for approximately 22 hours since last Thursday, and you can imagine how frayed my nerves are.
There has been the usual "Keep your hands to yourself!" lectures. And I even threatened to ground both of the boys until 2008 if they didn't get their acts together. Too harsh?
I have counted the minutes until bedtime each night with the anticipation of making myself a meal that is both warm and satisfying because eating with the kids (more specifically eating what they're eating) just isn't what I need right now. So I just sit with them at the table and referee.
I've also been enlightened that Wyatt is speaking a new and unknown language. Apparently in this language, "Go upstairs and brush your teeth" translates to "I want you to play the electric guitar." Who knew?
But, I am happy to report, there has been somewhat of a breakthrough.
Mere moments ago, as my blood pressure was rising and my temper running dangerously thin, I heard the three most endearing words from the mouths of my children.
"I'm sorry Mom."
I had just finished a little lecture on how Daddy has been gone a lot this week, and all I ask of them is that they eat their dinner with manners and without farting references. I didn't think that was too much to expect!
I explained that they need to do their parts and help out.
Of course I threw in the proverbial, "Santa is watching, you know!"
And they turned, and they looked at me, and they apologized.