The Plan

My kids are driving me crazy, or as my darling Grandma used to say, before she'd slipped down the hall to take off her girdle, and secretly slide a mickey of Gammel Dansk out of a pair of sensible shoes at the back of her closet, "Oh! You kids! Shut up!! You're driving me to drink!!"

Now, say....I think Grandma might have been on to something. 

So, I've developed a strategy. I've decided to approach all parenting dilemmas with a three-fold plan:

One: When approached with whining pre-schoolers, or angry, angst- ridden teenagers (of which, insanely, I have both),  I will stop. That is, stop moving--a mother standing in the kitchen or laundry-room, or sitting on the toilet, is such a ubiquitous sight as to make her almost invisible. Especially if she's holding any implements coated in food remnants, filthy dirty socks turned inside-out, or as with seeming regularity in my case, mid-stream. If however, the invaders sense my presence (which I admit, may be more often than I like, them being equipped with highly developed mother-seeking radar), I'll move onto step two of the plan.

Two: After being spotted by the hordes, with the unfortunate failure of my camouflage,  I'll smile (to put them off their guard), then run. Admittedly, I'm not as fast as the little ticks, and when determined they have incredible stamina, but I hope that with the combination of the disarming smile, and the sudden movement (of which they are rather unfamiliar--sudden movements from their mother, I mean), the boogers will be unsure of what's happening, thus giving me a much needed head start. I plan to press my advantage, make a fast-break for any room with a lock, and once inside throw the bolt. Now, I haven't failed to account for the problem of having the nose-miners on one side of a door, and me, locked on the other--which most mother's have learned results in the pound-kick-pound-scream attack. So I've made a survey of all the rooms in our house with a lock, and discovered that each of those rooms also has a window. Always have an escape hatch (that's my motto). Oh, yes. Always have an escape hatch, and wear shoes. But, I sense, this tactic may be slightly flawed and prone to failure, as eventually, my Catholic guilt will force me home, where I suspect, the "Bestowers of the Stretch Marks" will be lying in wait. So, when forced to reenter my home, I will move on to step three. 

Three: Calmly and quietly, through the noise and din and renting of clothing, I'll make my way to the drink cupboard and pour myself a stiff one. Once imbibed, I will repeat the step until sufficiently lubricated as to make all complaining, whining, demanding, and shouting irrelevant (to me). At which point, I will proudly carry on the family tradition and bellow, "Oh! You kids! Shut up!! You're driving me to drink!"