The Last Nerve

This weekend in my house, a scientific mystery took place-- one that defies the laws of time and space.  Well, maybe not space, but it may as well have been.

The 48 hours that linked together Saturday and Sunday inexplicably morphed into 100.  Or maybe 150.  For that matter, it could have been a month.  There is one thing for sure, however, and that is that my children erased 100 days from the end of my lifespan.  Or maybe 150.  For that matter, it could be a year.

Sure, there are days when they push and push, finally identifying my last nerve and running over it with a toy lawnmower.  You know, the kind that is supposed to make bubbles but instead makes a loud noise that irritates my cat and gives me a headache.

But this weekend went beyond mere headaches and bubble-less yard maintenance.  Every request was met with a complaint.  Each time I enforced a rule, one would cry.  The other would whine.

"Mommy do this!"
"I don't want that now!"
"Can you help me?"
"I don't want your help!"
"Go away, Graham!"
"Cael won't talk to me!"

Hitting.  Pushing.  Not sharing. 

Rather than subjecting my loved ones to what can only be compared to war-time torture, I sequestered the three of us (three because Joel was out of town, further cementing the notion that this particular torture was designed specifically for me) at home, avoiding public places and any situation that might lead me to snap and hog-tie them to a shopping cart or hand them over to stranger along with a sweaty bundle of one dollar bills.

I'd offer fives,  but we've spent all of the bigger bills on train sets and disposable diapers. 

I threw myself in bed both nights praying for a behavioral miracle, and I even took a blogging "day off" yesterday to let my mind rest, to scrape the farthest recesses of my brain for an idea for a plan to turn things around.   

One didn't come.

What did come, however, was the realization that mothers must have a great and instinctive ability to compartmentalize.  While the boys have pushed me to the brink of anger and, let's face it-- insanity, their behavior and actions are completely separate from my love for them.  And my gnawing frustration with them only exists because I want them to grow to be the men I know they can be.  My bottomless, never-ending, sick-to-my-stomach love for them stands as a barrier between their naughtiness and my desire to mail them to Abu Dhabi.

So with my last nerve hanging on by a thread, I'm going to approach this week with new resolve, and the determination for success that only a mother can manifest.

"MOMMY!  I took off my underpants and Graham put them on Oscar's head!"

Forget it.  They'll be on Ebay by dinner.