The skies have been dark around here - not a clumsy metaphor. Rather than the crisp, golden days of autumn that make this my favorite season of the year, we've been plowing through one overcast day after another. Yesterday was the first day in a week that the sun broke through the clouds for more than an hour or two. I wanted to spend an hour or so in the park after school.

I sat on the edge of the sand pit, and watched my kids scamper off to play with their friends. The sunlight was warm enough to penetrate the coldness that has settled near my spine. I wiggled my toes in the sand, and squinted despite the hand pressed to my brow in a sloppy, sun-blocking salute.

"Waaaaa!" I look up to see my three-year-old tearing across the sand, with a bigger kid in hot pursuit, throwing handfuls of sand at her.

I marched over to the scene, requested (okay, barked) at the kid to stop throwing sand, and then returned to my perch on the side of the playground. Moments later, I kid you not, something like 10 seconds later, here comes my son, winging a handful of sand at some other kid. I grab my son, make him apologize, and march him over to sit at my side.

Time out.

Five seconds after I had settled my butt back on the concrete, another cry split the air. My three-year-old had just thrown sand in the eyes of her favorite playmate.

Fugga mugga shigga. Buh.

So much for basking in the sun while the kids play nicely. I gathered all my little monsters up and marched them to the van. I thanked my lucky stars that I had driven, since I had one kid sprawled in the stroller sobbing, and one kid going limp on the pavement, and one kid crying because she wasn't the one who threw sand mom, why do we have to go home, you're so mean to us.

We lurched and sobbed our way to the van, and while they all settled down once they buckled their seat belts, I sat in the driver's seat, clutching the wheel and fighting back tears of my own. Another good idea, thwarted. All I wanted was some sun, and some peace, and maybe some conversation with friends. Instead, I got to make a scene, and be labeled a "mean mommy" by my kids.

Yeah. I wasn't crying about that.

So, I talked and explained and talked and explained and gave detailed instructions, and pulled the old "how would you feel if I..." role playing card out of my hat. And then I drove home. Slowly.

All the trees have thrown themselves into the fall spirit with gusto. A riot of colorful leaves lines the avenues between our house and the school. I want to gather some of those gorgeous leaves and make shaved crayon/leaf/waxed paper art with the kids. I want to make gingersnaps and mulled apple cider. I want to jump in piles of leaves and tell spooky stories under the blankets with a flashlight.

But somehow, I am afraid to try. I tend to idealize activities (shut up, Martha Stewart in my brain) and the reality is I find myself frustrated, disappointed, angry. Almost every time we try to do something lately, one of us misfires, and creates drama where none is needed or wanted.

I am tired of drama. I am tired, period.

The kids are still learning how to be considerate, appropriate, thoughtful... they've been fighting colds and fighting for attention with their siblings and their peers. They have plans of their own, and sometimes, like yesterday, their plan (apparently) to throw sand until I wigged out and dragged them screaming to the van work so well that it is uncanny.

I lit some scented candles yesterday, to fill my house with the spicy scents I associate with autumn, and I just stood there clutching the candles, mentally sending the warmth of the flame to my cold, cold spine. Rather than taking brisk walks in the brisk air, and enjoying the sound of leaves crunching underfoot, I feel chilled. I'm tentative, weary, and faded.

I think I'll take the dog for a brisk walk right now, and see if I can't get some blood flowing to the courage-in-the-face-of-autumnal-crafts center of my brain. And if I still feel like a crispy leaf when I get home, I'm going to cover myself with crayon shavings and wax paper myself something pretty.