In other words, the kids are bored. Not going to school is no longer any fun. And they aren't shy about letting me know.
The other day, while I attempted to neuter the stack of papers, mailers, statements, and assorted credit card offers that seems to double it's reproductive efforts during the night while the kids lounge in the living room. The day had started on the wrong foot, possibly even the entire leg. Before breakfast ended, petty arguments and whining had taken over all conversation. By the time I began filing away financial statements, my happy place wasn't answering my calls.
"Mom, I'm boooooooooooored!"
"What can I dooooooooo?"
I slam my binder shut and shove my chair back from the table, the legs squealing their protest on the linoleum.
"No more!" I roar, sure my eyes are about to spout fire. "The next kid who even hints at having nothing to do, will make my head explode and then you'll be forced to clean my brains off the floor. Do I make myself clear?"
Two pairs of very wide eyes stare back at me, nods barely registering.
"If you need something to do, then go clean your room. Sweep the kitchen floor. Empty Baby's diapers. Pull the weeds out of the flower beds. I have no shortage of work to get done, so unless you would like to become indentured servants to a brain-splattered woman, then I suggest you Go. Find. Something."
They scurry from the room, blurs of blonde hair and flailing limbs, not sticking around to see if there's brain fluid leaking out of my ear. Returning the chair to it's designated spot, I continue my task in relative peace. And silence.
Maybe a little too much silence. Soon, the silence becomes the kind of quiet that all mothers fear. Once again leaving the mounds of randy tree fiber products unchaperoned, I seek out the children.
Well, at least they found something to do.