The ending of yesterday’s post was the short version.  Here’s the longer side of the story.

 The artichokes were already cooked on the stove.  Truth is, they were softer than I wanted them to be.  I still had to make the biscuits, caramelize the onions, add the squash, and cook the chicken before mixing in the onions and squash.  I turned off the burner, but kept them in the water just to keep them warm.  The table was full of the day’s debris, and the day before’s debris, and debris from the day before that.  The laundry I had folded that morning still lay in piles on the couch.  I moved around my kitchen, getting more and more frustrated because the tight quarters were even tighter as dishes piled up in the sink.  There was just so much to do in such a short amount of time.  It was already coming on 8 pm, and the chicken was still sitting raw in the marinade.

 My son sat at the table doing his homework, trying to alphabetize his spelling list, and getting close to tears as he came towards the end to only find that he had skipped a word that started with C.  He had to erase everything and start all over again.  My daughter lay on the couch, looking through a catalog of Halloween costumes, trying to figure out which costume she wanted to get.  I couldn’t get past the mess in the house, and the fact that we had nowhere to eat when the food was done cooking.

 I needed help.

 ”Hon, could you please help me out by putting the laundry away and clearing the table?” I asked my daughter.

 ”Not right now,” was her answer, as if I were actually asking.  I was a little taken back, but I let it slide.  Thinking that she had maybe 2 minutes left with the catalog, I asked her to please do what I asked her as soon as she was done.

 15 minutes later she was still in the same position.  My son had given up on his homework at this point and was bouncing on the couches.  I was frazzled and could not bear the mess any longer.

 ”Get up and start putting the clothes away,” I told my daughter.  “And you,” I said to my son, “get back to the table and finish your homework.”

 ”I put the clothes away,” my daughter said as I eyed the stack of jeans still sitting on the couch.  It was true, her clothes were now missing from the couch.  But the rest of the clothes remained.  And the kitchen table was untouched.

 ”Put your brother’s clothes away -” I started before she interrupted me.

 ”Why doesn’t he have to help?” she complained.

 ”He’s doing his homework!” I said, tensely. “Put his clothes away, put mine neatly on my bed, pick up anything that’s on the floor, then clear the table so we have somewhere to eat.”

 ”Why should I have to clean up his stuff?” she asked darkly.  I stopped in my tracks, placed my hands on my hips and stared her down with my famous “mom stare”.

 ”You know what, you’re right.  And why should I cook your dinner?  I’m making my own dinner, you can fend for yourself,” I said.

 ”Ok,” she said, unphased.  I nearly lost it.

 ”Go to your room.  Get ready for bed.  You’re not eating anything.”

 ”But I’m cleaning!” she said, suddenly very interested in picking up her brother’s pile of jeans and heading up the stairs.  I had too much smoke coming out of my ears to argue with her.  Plus, the fire alarm was about to go off since the biscuits were in the oven, or maybe from the ear smoke.  And as if on cue the alarm sounded.  The kids started to fight over the chores.  The mess remained.  The onions were cooking too slowly.  And I was at my wit’s end.  My daughter was back on the couch and the living room looked the same as before, minus a stack of clothing.  My concerned neighbor knocked on the door and my daughter opened it to reveal the still thrashed living room with the theme music of shrill beeping.  It was pure and utter chaos.  As soon as the door was shut again, I once again expressed my wishes very sweetly, but this time was a lot louder and angrier, and both kids jumped up to get it done.  It still ended up not perfect, but at least I could sit down at the table.

 After dinner the homework struggle resumed.  I attempted to get my son to finish his homework while also getting his sister to go upstairs and get ready for bed. Both kids blatantly ignored me in favor of wrestling on the couch.  I couldn’t stand it any longer.

 “Fine!” I said.  “You don’t want a parent?  Then I’m done!” I said, getting up from the table and grabbing my keys and phone.   On my way to the door, my daughter shot me a look that said, ‘I know you’re kidding, but I’ll play along.’  She was about to be shocked.

 I had visions of traveling all night, drive to San Diego, or maybe just until I ran out of gas.  I had dreams of absolute silence, reading a book start to finish, writing forty pages of a new novel without stopping, relaxing in a place with no laundry or toys, no whining about unwanted dinners or the lack of dessert, no fights over bedtime or who has to take first shower, no soccer practice or driving 50 million places that have nothing to do with me and everything to do with the kids…  Seriously, what parent has NOT fantasized about just picking up and leaving? But this wasn’t really what I was going to do.  My plan was to circle the block and cool down, shake them up enough to calm down and calm myself down, then get back to the house and start over. 

 I put the key in the ignition, and saw my kids run out to the sidewalk.  My daughter later confessed that she did think I was kidding until her brother ran outside to come get me.  It was then that she realized that maybe I wasn’t kidding.  I rolled down the window.  My son had tears, actually scared that I was going to leave him.  And I felt bad for even allowing that thought to fester, allowing him to believe that I would ever leave them for even a second. 

 “Would you really have left?” they asked me later, once we were back in the kitchen.

 “No,” I said.  “I just get frustrated trying to raise the two of you when you refuse to acknowledge me.  The only way this family is going to work is if the two of you help me, and if you follow the directions I give you.”

 The rest of the night went really smooth.  And the kids went to bed with a kiss on the cheek, a promise of love, and wishes of good night.  And the next afternoon my son told me I didn’t care about him because we were skipping his kickboxing to make it to his sister’s soccer game.

 Oh, if I could clone myself for the sake of my children…..I’d let the clones take over and I’d be sipping margaritas on a warm beach far, far away.

 Pass me the saltshaker at winecounty.singlemom@yahoo.com