I had the two big kids home from school for the last two days, and it almost killed me. They've got what appears to be allergies gone wild, resulting in a deep, ugly cough and a fever that disappears moments after the final decision to keep the kids home has been made.

This morning, I looked at that flashing 100 degrees and blinked once before I yelled "Kiiiids, get your coats on. We're going to be late!"

Oh, don't look at me that way. You would have done the same thing, had you spent the last two days Chez Jenny.

First of all, my youngest? She is three. Being three must be painful. Being three means wanting That! That! That! That! and yet being unable to stop screaming long enough to do more than point vaguely and take a deep, shuddering breath before resuming the THAAAAAAAAAAAAT! business. Being three means that THAT is always the wrong THAT. And that THAT means more crying. Until she lands on THIS and THIS fixes things for like two minutes. Then she spots THAT again and poor Mommy ends up crushed under a heap of rubble caused by the sonic blast of toddler anger collapsing the ceiling.

You add in the antics of my older two, and you've got yourself a fat slice of headache waiting to happen.

What I'm personally loving right now is the older two's ongoing verbal sparring match, and how when I break it up and send them to their corners, they sneak into each other's space to continue the battle.

I send them to their rooms, and within two seconds, one or the other is creeping towards the room of their rival. I don't understand it. You are making her mad. She is making you mad. Stay away from each other.

"But M-O-M! We want to play!"

"Fighting isn't playing."

"We're just pretending."

"Yeah? No. Get away from each other."

WIthin five minutes, they are back together as though magnetically attracted. They cannot stay away. I am mystified. But then again, I don't think armpit farts are the height of hilarity, so what do I know? I'm probably missing out on the thrill of the battle.

Its all fun and games until Mom spoils the fun by insisting that we stop verbally assulting each other with names like poopy diaperhead. Geez.

I have to laugh, because they should know that my correct name is Poopsie Liverbutt and they are, in turn, Booger Liverbutt and Flunky Liverbutt, and their little sister is Chim-Chim Liverbutt. Like, get it straight.

I'm going to get a referee shirt made up. The vertical stripes seem slimming, and there's no law that is has to be polyester, right?

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