I am sure just about every parent reaches the point when packaging their kids in a tightly wrapped box and shipping them off with the UPS man to some far off and remote location seems like a very logical and appropriate response to the incessant nagging, nitpicking, smart-mouthing and whining that accompanies daily life with children.

Reality has set in and I already know in the long run, I don’t stand a chance in hell. With four children, each with a very different temperament, I fear I have met my matches.    They all seem to have this built in radar that alerts them when my nerves are absolutely shot and I have no reserves left.  It is at that precise moment that they gather together to launch ”Operation: Let’s Take Mom By Storm.”  In fact, an example of this special ops mission occurred this past Saturday night.

Two days before, my youngest had been sick with croup. For 48 hours, I had been up nursing him back to health.  I was exhausted and feeling a bit under the weather myself.  Sleep deprivation had kicked in. It was bedtime and I was still cleaning up from dinner. Foggy-brained and at the verge of falling asleep standing up, I yelled up the stairs for the kids to get their pajamas on and their teeth brushed so they could get ready for bed. My urgent request was met by a resounding “No” from my five year old daughter. To which she quickly followed with,” I don’t want to go to bed now. I am staying up all night. You can’t make me go to bed if I don’t want to.” 

I was about to reply with a more stern and authoritative command to follow directions when my ten year old said, “No one else has to go bed at ten o’clock on a weekend.”  He continued, “Eric said his mom let’s him stay up as late as he wants to.”   And he continued again, “Why can’t you be more like his Mom?  She’s cool.” 

At that point, my head was spinning because two of my children were simultaneously, verbally badgering me and my youngest was climbing up the banister to reach the bathroom. He forced me to stop mid-scream and focus on preventing his fatality, and it was then that it flashed before my eyes. They were winning.

My attention was diverted from responding to my first two opponents and I found myself frantically screaming for my eldest son to help get his baby brother upstairs and ready for bed so I could clean the rest of the kitchen.  But of course, he was no where to be found.  In fact, you could hear crickets downstairs in the basement it was so quiet. 

Already, at the ripe age of twelve, my oldest son has discovered the art of evading responsibility by retreating into the bathroom with a book.  He will hang out on the toilet for as long as it takes if it enables him to avoid doing chores or helping out, especially if the task he has been asked to perform is one he dislikes.

So there I was, stranded in the kitchen with one monkey and two screaming banshees.  By then, my mind was racing to come up with an escape plan. I concluded my only chance for survival was to head to the back deck and launch myself off of it when my youngest looked up at me and lovingly and innocently said, “Mommy, I don’t feel good.”  So I gently picked him up off the banister and he proceeded to throw up down my back. There I stood, covered in raspberry popsicle juice and bits of chewed up carrots. I looked and smelled like a tropical smoothie.

My middle two began laughing hysterically, when low and behold, my eldest ascended the stairs. He had miraculously found his way out of the commode and decided to find out what had precipitated such cries of joy.  When he saw me, he too, started laughing.   I had become a shriveled mess of worn nerves and vomit.  All I could do was stomp my foot on the floor as hard as I could and yell between clenched teeth, “That is it! Get your butts upstairs now and brush your teeth and get ready for bed!”   

I am not sure what it was that made them realize I had hit the wall and was pissed to the point of no return, but I imagine it had something to do with the puke-stained hair that was stuck to my cheek, the black puffy rings under my eyes, and my clenched jaw that made me look like a possessed freak.  Regardless of what it was, it worked, because they brushed their teeth and went to bed.

It had definitely been one of the fiercest battles to date, but somehow, I made my way to the bathroom, cleaned myself up, and crawled into bed. Yes, I had been orally assaulted with vomit and beaten down and verbally tortured. But, I had not been defeated. I had taken a stand, and damn it, I had survived another small, but significant battle for control. That night I fell asleep with a smile on my face—a smile filled with pride and personal satisfaction.

Parents, we can do this job called parenting, and we can survive it.  We just have to dig deep, pray a lot, and never give in or give up!