Everybody hurts. Everybody cries. Everybody spits on the windshield of a Ferrari. Sometimes.

Sometimes, I forget that life with children is abnormal to those without kids. Sometimes, I fail to notice that things are a bit odd in our household. But then my bloggy friend Mrs. Mouthy comes along and reminds me that this is just not normal. In fact, it's comical. (Thanks, Ma'am; I'd temporarily forgotten to look for the humour in the situation.)

Mrs. Mouthy is a lovely person, with a wealth of patience. She has her bad weeks too, but always looks for and generally finds the humour in her life. Honestly, she's so brilliant that I can't even link to individual posts. There are just too many of them. Yup, she's that good. Go read her, and you'll see.

Anyway ...

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T has an assignment due this week.

T tries valiantly to get through her readings, or at least find the assignment answers and avoid a late fee. J and N work to see which can drive T crazier. N screams and refuses to have his morning nap. J insists that he is a Jack-in-the-Box ... trust me when I tell you that this sounds less disruptive than it really is. Every time N begins to nod off, J shrieks and wakes him again. H hollers at J to knock it off, which helps not in the least. J shrieks in delight. N screams, awake again. Finally, T has a mini-meltdown. She can't do this. Through tears, she tells H: "Either you guys go, or I go. I don't care which". And H goes out with the kids.

T works on her assignment. It is nearly 50% complete, when ...

H calls. He must return home. The van has a flat tire, and the winds have begun to gust. T needs to look after the kids while H changes the flat. They return. We eat. N is fed and put down for his nap. H goes out in the cold to change the flat.

J sobs because he can't help Daddy change the flat. Locks H out. Objects with violent screaming to the door being unlocked. Runs about like mad. Shrieks. Hits. Hollers "NNNNOOOOO!!" and continually awakens N. J receives a time out. And returns, not quite as subdued as one might hope.

J heads toward the door and turns on a light, as it is getting dark in the living room. Nervous that he is about to lock the door again:

T: What are you doing over there, J?
J: (turns light off) But I want it to be bright.
T: Oh. Then turn the light back on.
J: NO!
T: Just turn on the light and it will be bright.
J: NOOOO! Not the big one!!!
T: Fine. (reaches over and turns on the small light)
J: Turn the light off!
T: No. I need the light now.
J: But it's hurting my eyes!!
T: It is not.
J: YES IT IS!!
T: No, it's not.
J: YES IT IIIIIISSSSS!!!!!
T: (in a horrible, hissing whisper) Stop screaming! If you wake up N again, I will be forced to strangle you slowly, with a hairbrush or something!

And then my head spun completely around. I swear it. My chiropractor will have his work cut out for him when next I have time to see him. At this rate, I expect that will be in about 23,867,978 years.

A few moments pass:

T: Please put N's carseat back where you found it.
J: Okay. (climbing into carseat box) But first, I have to pretend to be a mail carrier.

Because all mail carriers live inside a carseat box. Didn't you know? Me neither!

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The light is still on. N is sleeping again. H has headed to Canadian Tire to try and get the flat repaired. J is very much alive and, as I type this, he is sitting beside me, licking the windshield of his remote controlled Ferrari like some kind of deranged cat and pretending his spit is wiper fluid as he forces the wiper back and forth and nearly breaks the thing right off. (Once when his attention was distracted, I removed the Ferrari from the couch and hid it. But when he pitched a fit, I decided one little Ferrari wiper just wasn't worth it. Seriously. It's not.)

All's right with the world. But there may well be a late assignment fee in my future.

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Update: Five minutes after his Ferrari was returned to the couch, at his insistence:

J: Mommy, can you please take the Ferrari off the couch?

I'm going to throw something. Possibly the Ferrari. Which J is licking again. And scrubbing. With a hairbrush. I'm not even kidding.

Send vodka.