A Dingo Ate Your Baby

When one of my kids cries in the middle of the night and I wake, a panic sets in after the initial start. It is not a panic over what is happening, or whether there is an intruder in the house (I obsess over that before I go to sleep), it is a panic over whether s/he will stop and go back to sleep. I literally hold my breath. I mention this because I was just doing it and I almost passed out-which, as I think about it, might not be such a bad idea, as I would still be avoiding the situation, and much more comfortably- unconscious. If one were unconscious, rather than just sleeping, would s/he still have to get up to use the toilet in the middle of the night? It is sounding like I am going to have a tot in my bed tonight-is that a good excuse for missing church tomorrow? Oh shut up! I'm coming! I'm coming! Right after I get my freaking tubes tied!!!!!!

Into the Mouth with Babes

One would think that the collective unconscious would carry a message to the minds of children. If they were adequately informed of the fact that several species on this planet are known to eat their young, they might have an innate mechanism in them that tells them when to scatter when mother has that unique, primal look in her eye. And whereas children, even mine, bare no culinary temptation, there is a strange appeal in the post-repast effect that makes it a sort of idee fixe.
I wonder, though, whether a profanity chamber or escape capsule would suffice-in five minute bursts, to accommodate a growing need in me to be away from my kids. Their voices are starting to have a sickening effect. Their dirty clothes, their morning breath, their
bodily waste (somehow always at issue), their tantrums, their toys, their picky eating, their never ending freaking NEEDS! Why do I resent my progeny? Why does the fruit of my loins, the "key to the future", my pride and joys make me want to propel objects into forever and perforate the fabric of space so that I can grab hold of one side of the universe and rip it in two?
Do you know what I do instead? Mothers, you do. I fight tooth and mother-scratching-nail to hang on to them. I serve on PTSA (suicide on a stick), I take them to soccer (mosquito centrale), I feed them Macaroni and Cheese four times a week (someone stick a knife through my ear and out me out of my misery), and I hug and kiss them before I put them to bed (voo doo would feel better).
Sometimes I think it would be best if Ian and I could take turns in Iraq, but the truth is, he couldn't handle this (no offence should he ever read this). Sorry for the rant all-just want to send this out into space and leave the negative waves behind. Prost!