The Scene This Evening, 8:13 pm:

Me, scurrying down the stairs holding a coffee-clouded fishbowl, high-pitched shrieks of “I don’t want my fish to die!” echoing in the night.

The cat drinks the fishwater, and I have taken to filling it back up with the water that the Husband leaves out for the Biggie when he puts her to bed. I didn’t think about what ELSE might be in a cup on the kid’s bureau.

That was one buzzed beta.

So Much For Not Having Cable TV...(from the "Where Did THIS Come From?" Department)

(straight from the mouth of the babe)

I am Fiona, the Bad Ogre Slayer. I use this whip to snap the bag ogres in the eyes. I snap them and then they get all messy everywhere, and my husband Shrek comes and cleans them up and puts them all in the garbage, even their muscles, because we don’t want to have their slimy meat in our stir fry. We go to the grocery store to get chicken for our stir fry, and eat it up with broccoli.

This is my whip, and first I snap one eye of the ogre and then the other, and then it can’t see and I crack it on the head really hard with the air conditioner and it dies. I am very strong, you see.

Shrek, my husband, and I have children now. We have a seven year old and an eight year old and a nine year old and a ten year old and an eleven year old and a twelve year old and some babies. How many kids is that? I kill the bad ogres because they try to eat my children. They don’t hurt grown-up ogres.

Upon viewing the Biggie on tiptoe on the back of the couch, holding on to the precariously installed air conditioner for balance: “Please get down so you don’t fall.” “Oh, but this is how they taught me to do it,” she replies authoritatively. “Who?” “Mr. Nobody, the ghosts, and Peter Pan.”

More Jokes: “How did the grapes cross the road? In the belly of a kid!” “How did the playground cross the road? Got taken apart, put into boxes in a truck. Went across the road, and put back together again by a kid and her mama, in some mulch.”

Why There Are No Brain Cells Left

Over breakfast: “Can I have a spoon, please?” When given spoon, gently places it next to cereal bowl. Starts eating with fingers. “Please use your spoon.” “OK.” Uses fingers to put cereal in spoon, then puts spoon in mouth. Puts spoon down next to bowl. Starts eating cereal with hands. “Please use your spoon, sweet potato.” (Attempt at parenting with kindness.) “OK!” Continues to eat with hands. “Please stop eating like a monkey, and use your spoon.” (Attempt at parenting with humor.) “A monkey! HAHAHAHAHA!” Continues to eat with hands. “Mama, what do monkeys eat? Are they carnivores like us? Or do they eat--MONKEY BREAD?” “USE YOUR SPOON!” (Attempt at parenting with volume.) “WHAAAAAAAAA! Mama, don’t use a mean voice to me! I want to hang out with a nice mama, not a grumpy mama!”

And the wee one: “Yaaahhhh!” “What do you want, little one?” “Whaaaa!!!” “OK, do you want me to pick you up?” Pick up; she immediately starts contorting her body; flinging it back and forth like she wants to get down. Put her down. “Rrrraaaaahhhhh!” accompanied by mama pant-leg clutching. Pick up. Body contortion. Put down. Scream. And so forth.

These two sets of interactions occurred simultaneously, and this is how I frequently start my day. Some women I know have reserves of calm, pools of serenity which surround them as they go about their mama-work. They are able to turn each of the neverending queries into an opportunity for education. They are immune to the ear-blistering shrieks of the small ones. I am working on this. I am not so naturally gifted, but I’m trying, and on most days I do a good job. But then there are the days where the shriek volume is set to extra-blistery, and the migraine fairy camps out on my shoulder, waiting for an opportunity to sneak in. On those days I am flabbergasted that the human race has made it this far.