Burning down the house

I was tired this morning. Achey and tired. And it's Saturday, so I made sure to turn off everybody's alarm clocks last night and tell them to sleep in.

At 5:30 Maisie climbs into bed with me; Liam's already there. 5:45 and the cat screams that he wants to go out. "Don't move," I whisper to the kids. "I'll be right back; sleeping isn't over."

I get back, they're quarreling. Still quarreling at 6, and at 6:15. "Downstairs, now!" I finally shoot out. "Read books. Quiet." They go down the stairs, and I close my eyes. Things are thumping and bumping down there. Something hits the floor hard. There's the occasional hissed invective or protest. Then it's not hissing anymore: they're in full-throated holler. 6:30. Goddamnit.

I go down. There's chocolate milk spilled on the rug--the rug I just had cleaned. Somebody half-heartedly wiped it up, and left the soaked paper on the wood floors. Steam is hissing out of my navel. I can hardly speak.

"I'm so disappointed in you two that I don't even have words for it."

Down on my knees soaking chocolate milk into paper towels--a roll of it, pulling the stain out of the carpet. One of the kids snickers. That's it.

"Do you want to live until tomorrow?" They nod.

"Upstairs. Now. No sounds." They go.

Liam has heard from a domestic violence specialist who travels around and talks to kindergarteners about anger management. Ten minutes pass and I hear him on the stairs. I'm not looking. Then the rip of scotch tape and a note going up on the fireplace. Then feet going back up.

It reads: Stop. Think. Take 5. Only the p is backwards and the 5 is there twice. Think ten, maybe.

Have to laugh.