Life Balance: a feat we try to achieve while searching to be the best that we can we, while simultaneously raising our children to do the same. This is the equilibrium in our inner life force whereby our heartbeat matches the divine force that exists all around us. When this life balance peaks, our sense of peace, joy, love and wisdom act as one with our very soul.
"Is your neck supposed to be blue??"--cupcake to Wild Child.
Just a dull Tuesday. Learning exciting new duties at work and the brain is a little fried. Not even sure I know my own name or how to drive my car, but I make it home. Looking forward to a little slow review of the training materials and an easy night watching "Gidget Goes Hawaiian."
Walk into the marble foyer with stained glass windows (translation: breezeway with 1950 windows frosted over on the inside during a Buffalo January cold spell) and trip over the large red, white and blue skateboarder shoes. Great, Soccer boy is visiting.
Hi, where are the boys? Doing a science experiment. Oh? That's nice. Change to sweats, go to computer to review more training materials. Check on the boys. Changing into shorts. Hmmm. Okay. Do some work, try to settle down while the twins are yelling "You're fat. No, you're fat. Am not, you're ugly. Well, you're just stupid. Am not. Are too."
Finally, the brain opens. "Science experiment? Hun, you know what they are doing?''No, they said they had homework. Homework, Wild Child hasn't opened a book since he chewed on them as a baby. "I hope they're not building firearms. What did they take up there?" Duct tape and a hair dryer. Duct tape? They don't have muffin boy locked up there, do they?
Walk upstairs, it smells like grape koolaid. Grape. Hmm. Go to bedroom, no boys. Go to bathroom, door is locked. Open up. No, we need 15 minutes. No, open up NOW.
There stands two 14 year old boys, with dark purple die on their heads, with duct tape around their face and ears. And the hair dye has dripped and leaked, well all over. It's dripped down their faces. Their necks have streaks. There's spots on my floor. My beige tub is streaked. They have dripped all over.
You are so dead. Clean this up. Rinse it off. NOW.
Call Soccer boys Dad. Apologize. Ask what he wants me to do? I could shave his head for him. He says, do whatever you want. Well, I may, just shave it to knock some sense into them.
They come down. The heads are kinda black, but the faces and neck, well, look like Smurfs.
Go Shave. Go shower. Go wash it off.
Yuck. Really, you are so dead, I will be on social security before you leave the house. Don't even ask me for anything.
Hey Mom, can I get the blond streak down the middle on Saturday?