Had God been channel-surfing through Creation yesterday and landed on my life for a certain 15 seconds, He would have thought He'd landed on the opening scene of CSI: Mothers Gone Mad. You know the scene, right before the violent crime happens and the carefully styled crime scene investigators have to come in and furrow their brows over the evidence while techs make inappropriate jokes in the background.
I just lost it. Totally flipped out on the boys. Too much jumping around and getting in the baby's face, combined with a handful of deadlines and an email inbox that should simply be nuked, made for a flash of insanity worthy of a crime drama.
I screamed. Shook my fists in what came dangerously close to a windmill fashion. Lunged in the general direction of my slightly amused offspring.
I didn't say it was a well-directed crime drama.
And then, just as quickly as it came on, my flip-out flipped off. Leaving me embarrassed and sorry.
What can I tell you? I'm a work-at-home mom with three kids. Count 'em: THREE! I can't believe it myself sometimes. I very easily get caught off guard by that simple fact on occasion, usually when I'm trying to figure out the juggle.
The juggle. I sit at my desk, stare at my email, glare at my blog's "last updated" date, scowl at whatever tantrum is being thrown on twitter by who cares who at the moment, sigh at my list of deadlines, snarl at the dishes overflowing the sink, arch my eyebrows at the piles of unfolded laundry on the couch, and then glance over and notice that damn if I'm not crawling with kids.
Cute kids. Funny kids. Rambunctious kids. Mischievous kids. Smart kids. Sneaky kids. Darling kids. Patient kids. Young kids.
All of those balls up in the air.
I don't have to tell you which ones I refuse to drop.