The clock strikes 4 am, and I spring into action hearing the wails from the nursery.  I return to my room, after soothing the littlest into submission, to find the other one…

He’s there…

in the dark…

waiting for me…

because of the rabbits.

He has me cornered as he weaves his two sentence tale of the rabbit he saw under his door.  It’s a biting rabbit.  It’s scary.

I was not expecting this.  I was not prepared for evil rabbits.  I underestimated his three year old brain.

On cue the babe cries again.

The preschooler doesn’t want to be alone.  The baby, now in my room with us does not want to sleep.  In a hostile takeover of my Tempur-pedic, both boys beat me into submission with flailing limbs as I try to go back to sleep.

The war has begun.  The terrain is dangerous as I dodge two Shih Tzus, and leap over a chair shaped like a baseball to capture a boy who needs his teeth brushed.  I feel almost successful, until the 6 month old in the playpen topples over and bonks his head, eliciting screams.  I run over to scoop him up, and he promptly pukes in my hair.  I look at his giggling face, and it all becomes clear.  The littlest one, whom I thought was neutral, is really on the other one’s side.

I hold the baby up, and peer into his cherub face looking for signs of traitor-ship.  In an effort to remain clandestine, he pulls out the heavy artillery and fusses while whining maahaa ma mahaa.  I have no choice but to use the weapon I know he is powerless against – the boob.

I sit and nurse.  I pretend to look peaceful, while I survey the landscape and plan my next mode of attack.  It’s day three of vacation for the preschooler, and excessive night waking for the baby.  Keeping a three year old entertained all day (for many days) with a fussy, teething baby was wearing me raw. My cupboard was low on rations, the itch in my throat was foreboding, and I was dangerously close to hallucinating from lack of sleep.

I look across the couch to see my oldest bunkered in a pile of unfolded laundry in an effort to keep his teeth dirty.  I curse myself for letting my unfinished chores be used against me.

There’s no letting my guard down.  There’s no reprieve.  There’s no five seconds of silence, or showers alone.  Having one child is hard, having two is like twenty – but I refuse to be beaten.

I take a deep breath as I stand up and step in what could only be dog pee.  I grit my teeth, and swear silently that their efforts at a coup will be for naught.

I rally myself:

Teeth will be brushed.

Errands will be run.

Games will be played.

Naps will be had.

Bedtimes will be fucking kept.

I will defend my position as the grownup until my last breath.

Oh, this isn’t Spring Break…

This is madness.

Madness?

THIS

IS

SPARTAAAA!