When I get home from a long week at work, nothing makes me feel more at home than squabbling with three able-bodied children about whom will let the dogs out. Mind you, these dogs did not sneak in during the day to surprise us. They were here all along and typically want to go out soon after our arrival.
Each day there is a contest to determine who can get through the door first and run off on some errand that would preclude dog detail. One tactic is to stall outside looking at patterns in the dust and debris on the panel of the car exterior. Some might find this mind-numbing, but to my children, the secrets of the cosmos are written there and must be studied with intense scrutiny.
Another popular tactic is to declare that they are on an urgent bathroom mission. Nothing and no one will get in between a child and a toilet. However I am suspicious of the school meal plan as my children seem to both be extremely regular and need a prolonged period of time to get the business done. Every. Day.
And finally, another tactic one might choose is to walk into the house, leaving car doors agape and a trail of outerwear along the way, and then look askance at any adult who might suggest that the dogs need to go out again today. "What?" one might ask. "What could be the matter mother dear?" "Dogs? Out? Didn't we do this just yesterday? Surely there is someone else who could do this. Maybe yourself? I see that you have one eyelash still uninvolved in this process."
For you see, my children get into the car in the morning with the requisite coat, hat, mittens, boots and backpacks, yet return each night unaware that they must return these items to the house. Daily, they flee the car, leaving all but their epidermis in the driveway.
"Coat?
"Not cold.
"Shoes?
"Don't need 'em...already in the house.
"Door?
"I'm busy with the one on the fridge right now."
Which is how I came to enter the house this evening face first, and with most of my integrity on the front porch; with the contents of my work bag covering something akin to eight feet of real estate, and tripped over a beagle with uncanny timing. It is why you might notice a boot shaped bruise on my cheek. Because I don't always enter a room with an unnerving amount of grace, but when I do, I will definitely land on the least yielding object around.
And, it is why, if you happen to be in a three block area of my home on any given work evening, you will hear the sound of one Mama slowly coming unhinged.
Each day there is a contest to determine who can get through the door first and run off on some errand that would preclude dog detail. One tactic is to stall outside looking at patterns in the dust and debris on the panel of the car exterior. Some might find this mind-numbing, but to my children, the secrets of the cosmos are written there and must be studied with intense scrutiny.
Another popular tactic is to declare that they are on an urgent bathroom mission. Nothing and no one will get in between a child and a toilet. However I am suspicious of the school meal plan as my children seem to both be extremely regular and need a prolonged period of time to get the business done. Every. Day.
And finally, another tactic one might choose is to walk into the house, leaving car doors agape and a trail of outerwear along the way, and then look askance at any adult who might suggest that the dogs need to go out again today. "What?" one might ask. "What could be the matter mother dear?" "Dogs? Out? Didn't we do this just yesterday? Surely there is someone else who could do this. Maybe yourself? I see that you have one eyelash still uninvolved in this process."
For you see, my children get into the car in the morning with the requisite coat, hat, mittens, boots and backpacks, yet return each night unaware that they must return these items to the house. Daily, they flee the car, leaving all but their epidermis in the driveway.
"Coat?
"Not cold.
"Shoes?
"Don't need 'em...already in the house.
"Door?
"I'm busy with the one on the fridge right now."
Which is how I came to enter the house this evening face first, and with most of my integrity on the front porch; with the contents of my work bag covering something akin to eight feet of real estate, and tripped over a beagle with uncanny timing. It is why you might notice a boot shaped bruise on my cheek. Because I don't always enter a room with an unnerving amount of grace, but when I do, I will definitely land on the least yielding object around.
And, it is why, if you happen to be in a three block area of my home on any given work evening, you will hear the sound of one Mama slowly coming unhinged.
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