Crazy Town

You guys. Seriously. I’ve got a problem over here.

My children are certifiable.

Nutso.

Crazy like a moose running down a highway the wrong way wearing rain-boots and a diaper.

Zoe is The Gremlin. A gremlin with a cute face and huge hair. With a voice that sounds like an old woman who has taken one too many shots of Jack while smoking a pack of Reds. And sucked a helium balloon. Upside down. While eating cookies. Naked.

Zach is The Director. He sits in the corner in a motorized chair made of legos, dirt and hummus. He barks orders while thumbing through the latest issue of Scientific American and skimming the article on electronic conductivity. He holds a megaphone and a moral compass. Periodically he twitches. Shrieks. Twiddles his thumbs. Studies The Gremlin. Sneaks her treats under the table.

There is no gradual wake up period in this house. The Gremlin and The Director go from asleep to “where the hell is my waffle” in under 3 seconds. By the time I get to the evening I am ready to commit myself.

Today, the following exchanges with The Gremlin and The Director took place between 6:17 and 6:41 PM.

No words have been changed.

Punctuation is ignored because Gremlins and Directors think punctuation is stupid.

“Actually, mommy, this pop is not my favorite color… Twinkle twinkle little star, how I know my ABC’s... In the rainbow in the skyyyyy….”

The Gremlin stubs her toe while uttering the above stream of consciousness and heading towards the staircase. She collapses. Screams. Stands. Looks up at me.

“Mommy, I see a little bone sticking out of my leg. Can you get me a sip of wat…”

She smacks her lips. Goes catatonic; comes to a moment later.

“Butt-pop! I be glad to go night night. Can you read me a stor…”

She removes her pants and underwear.

“You can’t get me. Na na na Mickey Mouse”

She sprints up the stairs.

Meanwhile, The Director is downstairs with a tin can telephone made of old yogurt drink containers and hemp rope. He calls me.

“Mom. MOM. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mommy. MOOOOOM. Mom.”

I don’t answer because I am upstairs wrestling with The Gremlin. Trying to get her to stop dancing. Trying to get her to keep her hands out of my shirt. The Director bangs on the door of The Gremlin’s room.

“MOM! I have been calling YOU. I need you to talk to me on my yogurt phone. I have a very important phone call I need to make to put my Death-Star on Ebay. I need something with a motor. I need to take a bath. Mom, if I take a bath can I bring my green boat in the bath? And my scuba mask. Where is my snorkel? But don’t put bubbles in my water this time. MOM! I am talking to you. Can you help me right now?”

I tell The Director to chill out and wait a minute. He retreats. I have time to take half of a half of a breath. My hair has frizzed out to the size of a small planet. He is back. This time wearing a hat and dragging a red wagon in which he has placed a popped balloon.

“MOM! This balloon clearly is not full. I will bring it to Home Depot and glue it together with Gorilla Glue. Mom. Mom. Can we go to Home Depot right now?”

I tell him no. Not at this exact moment. He sulks off. Clearly, there is no worse mother than me. I hear him chase the cat. He returns with her in his arms. He has ditched the wagon and is holding both the cat and a half of a banana.

“Mom. Mommy. Mom? Something is wrong with Cleo. She smells like a Bologna sandwich.”

This is the point in the evening where I flirt precariously with losing the ability to function. I have fantasies of quiet white rooms and soft beds and soothing music.

Fine.

Whatever.

I have fantasies of shots of Tequila. If I shoot Gran Patron, I won’t know if I’m in a soft bed or curled up with cheerios stuck to my knees and an old piñata as a pillow.

It won’t matter though.

They will find me.

They always do.

My children are crazy.