This morning, we made homemade playdoh with the Kitchenaid mixer. (I love my Kitchenaid mixer with a love usually reserved for cashmere and silk yarns, rosewood knitting needles, leather purses and rum raisin Haagen Dazs ice cream.) I made the mistake of letting the kids "help". I think I see flour on my vaulted ceiling. There is flour and salt on the counter, on the floor and in my son's hair. The cat just walked by, and she has pink playdoh on her head.
There has been one screaming fit from me when the son decided to use a chair as a trampolene. One crying fit from the son when his sister smacked him in the ear for some unknown reason. And there is an eight-year-old girl on the sofa who suffers from the delusion that the rest of us in her realm are put here to wait on her hand and foot.
This too shall pass. Life is finite. I hate spring break.