So I am tired of being on public display every time I change my clothes. So I have determined that it is high time I introduced a door-locking policy. It isn't going over well with the 'under 5' crowd.
Mommy: Okay, guys, I'm going to go get dressed while you guys finish your breakfast.
(I go in my room, lock the door, then go into the bathroom, and, well, go. Melody begins banging at my bedroom door and hollering.)
Melody: Mommy! Open! This! Door! Right! Now!
Mommy: I can't! I can be there in two minutes!
Melody: Now! I! Need! You! Right! Now!
Mommy: I'm coming, I'm coming! Give me just a second!
(Expecting catastrophe, I open the door.)
Melody: We're not boys! We're womans!
Melody: We're womans! We're! Not! Guys! You! Called! Us! Guys!
Mommy: Oh. Sorry. You Womans go eat breakfast, I am going to get dressed.
(Two minutes pass.)
Mommy: I still need two minutes!
Melody: But hurry! Dixie stood on the table and THAT is a TROUBLE THING. She needs to go to time out RIGHT NOW but she CAN'T because time out is in your room and YOU LOCKED THE DOOR.
So I sit down to blog this the instant I am dressed, of course, because who could risk forgetting material of this caliber, right?
Melody: Mommy! Get Charlie!
Mommy: Dixie, go turn on the robot to distract Charlie.
Melody: Mommy! He is tearing down the castle I built that has a tall tower that is a smoke factory and makes smoke and steam and clouds go very up high in the sky but it won't be able to go up high if you let Charlie tear it down. We do not need a baby like that. That is not the kind of baby we need.
Dixie: She's right. That is not the baby we need for our home.
Mommy: So go turn on the robot so he'll move. (But what Mommy is thinking is 'Leave me the ($&# alone so I can write down the precious *#^#(@ memories of your magical *#&#%^#(% childhood.')
Melody: Mommy! Charlie is opening a present!
Yeah, I guess this is the point where I leave, but I must return later to tell you about the most fabulous tantrum in human history. There are no adequate adjectives.