Out of the Mouths of Babes

I'd asked them to give me 15 minutes (to finish the story I was working on) TEN times until finally I found myself running through the house chasing the loudest one (Hannah, who will now be referred to as The Screamer) in order to put her in her room so I could actually finish my 15 minutes and bake the blasted cookies which at one point had sounded like great fun and were now the bane of my existence.

Not only had they asked me 10 times if the 15 minutes were up yet (this from the Screamer who has not yet learned to count to 60 thank you Jesus and who I was now wildly pursuing) while Henry (now referred to as The Counter) stood at my shoulder counting to 60 over and over again (because he's realized that counting to 60 equals one minute). This activity would be bad enough on it's own for someone attempting to pull words out of their brain in order to create a sentence that makes at least some sense but add to it jarring screeches of discontent each and every time The Screamer interrupts his concentration to query on whether said 15 minutes has passed.

It goes something like this.

"1...2...3...4...5..." the Counter counts.

"Mama, has it been fifteen minutes yet?" screeches the Screamer.

I manage to ignore them until the Counter becomes the Screamer because the original Screamer has interrupted him for the second time in a row.

"I can't count with her screaming," he screams at me.

"I just want to bake cookies," the screamer screams. And well, you can imagine.

Until I've finally had enough because now the Screamer is having a meltdown, just inside the door, because I've taken to giving her the silent treatment. And I'm off stomping through the house like a mama cat whose kittens have outgrown her and are still trying to nurse, with the same look on my face that my grandma gets when the last straw has been broken or ripped into tiny little shreds.

"Mama," the Counter says later, after I've spent 10 minutes chasing the Screamer through the house to no avail. I'd given up, sitting on the couch huffing and puffing like I'd run a marathon. "You know Mama, that when you're mad and you're going to put someone in their room....we always know you're coming."

"You do," I reply, not caring much at this point what they do or do not know as long as it doesn't involve counting or screaming.

"Yes Mama, you might try smiling real big and sneaking up on her," he says matter of factly and I can't help but grin at him.

"You think that would work, do you?"

"Yes, we always know you're coming. Can we make the cookies now?"