WTF?

This week, overall, has been a complete train wreck. I've gotten so stressed and exhausted trying to schedule a car tune up that I threw the French doors closed and stood, shaking, in the dining room as two little possessed kids tried to nudge/hack/shimmy their way into my personal space while screaming at the top of their lungs. I literally had to call the man at "Al's" back twice because I couldn't understand a word. All I could focus on was that I had two kids about to shatter forty panes of glass just to get close to me and all I wanted was to be alone. Was something wrong with me?

When the urban youth stopped by to sell $43 cleaner "scented lavender for all the Queens - like you" I bought one. I opened the door, listened, and bought one. I just didn't have the heart to say no to his spiel on a ninety-nine degree day in Iowa. He had on jeans, long sleeves, and was sweating out of control. Not only did I buy his product, I also ended up giving him a Gatorade and a pep talk... while my kids ram sacked his backpack, jumped off the porch onto my hostas, and he looked at me like "you poor thing!" instead of gratitude. Was something wrong with me?

Xanders favorite way to snack is to lay on a blanket, picnic-style, on our great room floor. He and Zoe started out okay on the same red blanket with bears. Now Zoe has to have her Ducky blanket at a forty-seven degree angle from the TV, certain throw pillow she used a Sharpie to decorate a few weeks ago, and a sippy cup she hasn't used since she was in Pampers. It used to be fun and a great way for momma to get in twenty minutes of space. Now it has turned into a complete disaster in which if Xander's big toe is within one inch of Zoe's blanket, she steamrolls an unsuspecting baby and squishes him until he cries. In return, Xander grabs fistfuls of toe head hair on top of him and pulls, yanks, and tugs until each fist takes away a nice souvenir. I watch, disgusted with them, pull them apart and scream. What is wrong with me?

Xander has a handful of words he uses. Maybe less than a handful... unless they are in eighteen-point font. At his age, Zoe was a walking storybook, telling tales of every adventure she could think of that entailed a horse, stop sign, and gas station - the things she remembered on her last trip to the store with her mom. We would laugh and create enchanted lands with our words and have conversations that could rival some adults. Xander grunts, points, and breaks down with a scream, downward facing dog, and head bang instead of sign "Milk" most days. What is wrong with X?

At swim lessons, which should be a thirty minute break, Zoe played tug of war with another little girl over the green turtle kick board. They shouted, tugged, and splashed one another, both ladies showing a fierce attitude that could rival Naomi Campbell's, until an instructor pointed out that all six kick boards were, in fact, identical green turtles. Instead of calmly reaching for another, both girls locked their grip on The One and waited. The instructor, exasperated, handed each of them a new kick board and threw the sought-after one in the deep end. I pretended not to see the ordeal. What is wrong with Zoe?

When Mr. comes home from work and after an hour has sighed fourteen times and broken up six sibling arguments, instead of feeling kinship, I usually snap, "Don't look for sympathy from me, Bud. I've done this ALL. DAY." and go back to escaping in a hot sink of Dawn and a scrub brush. What is wrong with us?

I. AM. EXHAUSTED. If someone handed me a ticket anywhere from here for the weekend, I would walk out the door, pick up some chick lit at the airport, and step on the plane. I'd sleep in-between pretzel and Sprite breaks and enjoy being cramped in an itty-bitty seat without an infant puking on me while a toddler kicks the seat in front of her every forty seconds (which is enough time for the passenger in front to get comfortable again, settle in, and then "BOOM!"). When I hit my destination I'd call my man and make sure he and the kids were alive, hang up, and sleep. Read. Eat. Repeat. I'm sure I'd miss them within twenty-four hours, but I know that first day I wouldn't think twice about neglecting my mommy duties. What is wrong with me?

Sometimes I want to shake so hard the kids vibrate off of me, almost like little tops, and spin away. Not too far, but just far enough that I can move without tripping over one of them or their toys that are always everywhere. I find the premise to Toy Story non-fiction. Those toys, which were put away and organized when I left the room, always manage to party their way onto the stairs, into the middle of the floor, and under my feet the second I return to the room holding two loads of laundry with Xander perched like a cherry on top. Zoe is no where in sight, typically roving through her closet in search of the one item she cannot reach, piling up pillows and Pottery Barn chairs, and climbing the stack to reach her elusive tutu, only to lose her balance, catch a hanger, snap it in half, and carve a bloody tunnel out of her cheek, all while I don't have my eyes on her for a minute. This has happened more than once. What is wrong with us?

I know there will be bright moments in my day today that I wouldn't trade for the world, but all in all, I would love to escape. Just for a day or two and get back my mojo... or until nap time.