Dante thought there were nine circles of hell. The lustful. The gluttonous. The heretics. The violents. And so on.
Dante was wrong. There are ten circles of hell. That final, forgotten circle? That e 10th ring? It is, of course, is life with a three-year-old and five-year-old. A sampling from our past week:
“Pie, will you have a muffin or a scone today?”
“I’ll have a muffin. I only eat scones when it’s hot.”
At 4 a.m. I can’t sleep. My mind won’t stop churning. And what is it churning? “I love being a princess. I love being a princess.” Over and over. By the Backyardigans. “If you want to dress like this, and wear a shiny crown;
If you like how people look when they are bowing down; If princess life is what you want, your choice is crystal clear; Go find some other country, pal; ‘Cause I’m the princess here!” If you know the tune at all–ha! Now it’s in your head too.
Full scale meltdowns that end with me putting a jacket on my naked daughter because the boy is not going to be late for kindergarten. And what sets off these kinds of meltdowns? Isn’t it obvious? I picked out the wrong underwear.
A Halloween treat: scrambled eggs made in one of those impossible-to-use impossible-to-clean William Sonoma pancake molds. And the verdict? “Mommy, I don’t like pumpkin eggs! I like skeleton eggs!” From the girl terrified of skeletons, mind you.
A son who declares to his friend (the architect’s son, mind you), that his house, which is undergoing what seems to be a multimillion dollar renovation, is “so totally not cool.”
One bathroom. Two kids. One who might as well be taking the entire Sunday New York Times in with him; the other who doesn’t have to go, no really, doesn’t have to go… until someone else is sitting on the toilet in which case she has to go right now this very second!.
A five-year-old son, who yells, when his 14-year-old babysitter walks by the playground with a friend, “Hey babes!”
My life. In hell.