Santa is a Woman on Fire

It is week one, t-minus one more, of 3v1 solo-time. 

We were supposed to go to the mall, have lunch, have fun, but I cancelled it due to bad behavior. Naturally, the punishment was worse on me. It was a long ass day with three kids (since I also cancelled play dates too; sorry neighbor kids). And it's cold enough that I can kick them outside for short bursts only. But I have to be a mean mean mom because this fighting and tattling and constant crap must end.

My sisters were older than me by 6 and 7 years so the sibling fight club is kind of new to me. It would be completely foreign if not for my friend Amy, who was the middle of five kids under five, and when I think of them all, I remember nothing but a cloud of dirt hanging over them, Pig Pen style, as they kicked the crap out of each other on the rug or in the yard or at the beach. Amy's sister once glued the pages of Amy's diary together and for a long, long time, that was the height of cruelty to me. How dare she? All.those.memories.... I think we were 11 at the time.

Which is not to say that I did not try to get my chops in with my sisters. I did. I used my mouth -- surprise surprise -- but that was stupid: they would hold my forehead at arm's length while I chomped away and snarled and tried like some rabid baby lion to bite them. I never even got a nibble in, what with the arm of an older stronger sister (who was laughing) holding me back. I resorted to snooping through their rooms when they were gone. 

I spend a lot of time alone in this parenting thing, what with the Kid's crazy schedule, so when I tell you that I hit the fucking wall today, it is not so much because he's been gone, it is because it was just that bad. In a desperate tired moment, I evoked the Santa threat and initiated a kind of Christmas boot camp. In the lowest moment, I said that if I were Santa I would re-think my route and my naughty list. 

I feel only half-bad about that. 

The good news? The house is sparkly clean because I can be fierce with the cleaning supplies when I am pissed. I am sure it will look like this for twelve hours or less. I can't imagine how we'll get through another long cold day tomorrow. Maybe we'll try to do the mall again. Maybe I'll take them on a walk, Bataan style. 

Santa is a bitch sometimes. 

Especially when she's looking through her photos for a picture for the freakin' Christmas card she hasn't gotten together and finds this one and thinks -- really? you can't sleep in your own beds alone and choose instead to snuggle into this tiny one with the brother and sisters you scratch and claw and tell on and claim are ruining your lives? really? it's like that? I mean, look at you! Crammed in there and nice and quiet and cozy and completely not fighting! 

I think I should take this picture and glue it to your freakin' foreheads so you remember exactly what Santa is trying her very hardest to remember right now: that you are sweet and sugar plummish and worth it.

Even when I am pretty much sure that all of you Short Drunk People should spend the night in the car.