Most days, my children bring untold joy to my life. They make me laugh, they challenge me to be a better person, they're all around pretty fantastic.
And then, some days, my kiddos make me earn my keep.
Like last night, when the mountain of clothes they'd accrued (all while promising they'd put them away) buried a lamp (that was on). At first, I smelled smoke and thought I'd gotten the wood stove too hot. Then, the smell got worse and I walked around the cabin like I'd been possessed by a Bloodhound, sniffing out the source of the smoke. When that search turned up nothing, I sat back down, thinking maybe I was just imagining it. Until my eyes started watering.
Further investigation revealed the buried lamp, and the pile of clothes it had caught on fire. One kerfuffle later, the fire was out and I was informing my children that my messiest room failed to burn the house down. It was a full 24 hours before I had enough of a grip on my tongue to have a talk with the boys about the importance of not catching one's room on fire. Anything sooner than that would have resulted in some ineffective head spinning. To be honest, my temper has been getting the better of me lately, so I was pretty excited when I did manage to hold my tongue.
I'm telling myself cabin fever is setting in, making my beloved boys especially squirrelly. (Which could also explain the aforementioned temper troubles I seem to be having.) Having the three of them in this tiny space is like having a litter of puppies wrestling in a closet. Really big, goofy puppies in a really teeny tiny closet. There have been other incidents, ones that happen and I think to myself, "I should blog this." I've forgotten them now. Maybe just blacked them out.
Thankfully, for my sanity and my word count, my parents are stepping in like the angels they are and taking the boys for the weekend so I can make some progress on my novel. I could count on one hand the number of weekends I've spent without kids in the past fifteen years. It could get crazy.