Oh, chocolate sauce!

Two Minutes to Feller Bedtime...


Why oh why
did I let out a cry
that curdled the 2% milk
when I opened the refrigerator door?

What to my horror
was oozing on the floor
in a sticky puddle of poo brown?

The chocolate sauce
had been given a careless toss
into the fridge door.

And that, my friends,
is where my patience ends
to see that poo brown puddle drown
all the bottles and tubs of food and condiments

Because I would now have to scrub
all the sticky poo brown grub
off all the bottles and tubs
while the children are screaming for milk

This mess will prolong their dreaming
and my wish to stop their screaming
And has started me screaming
new words for their growing lexicon







****

Actually, the whole chocolate syrup puddle in the fridge tonight wasn't that bad. Hubz helped clean up the mess, bedtime was dead on target, and all was well. Of course, neither of the big kids is fessing up. I don't blame them. Beware the wrath of Mom.

****

Sadly, Boompas has picked up on my favorite PMS phrase God Damn It. To be honest, I use it all times of the month. However, I do try try try to exercise caution, and most of the time I do alright unless sorely provoked (you know, I sneak out of the room to take a dump and return to find cereal carpeting the carpet, someone yanking the tail of a seriously PO'ed cat who is screaming in agony, the bookshelf overturned and books ripped to confetti, one little boy streaking past me with a bag of cookies in one hand and the half dull kitchen scissors in the other, toys whipping past my head, maniacal laughter ringing in my ears in surround sound, and basically overall Bedlam). However, during the wonderful pre-menstrual days, I have been known to roar my pet phrase at about 100 dB, drowning out the sound of the vacuum, planes flying overhead and the jackhammers of the construction crews working on the street.

So this last month, during a scene much like the parenthetical one described above, I let loose my pet phrase in a roar that shook the walls and shattered the crystal (haha like I have any crystal--with teens doing the dishes here--that's funny!). Ever since that, Boompas has been using it when I tell him it is bedtime and he doesn't want to go (so that is two times a day at least) and when his big teen brother hides the infamous toy Spider Man under his size 11s and won't give it back no matter what. Or when Eight-Eight Fingers or his twin brother Stink got the good idea to play with just the toy he wanted. So, really, it doesn't take much. Basically he is swearing like a true Irish lad deep in his cups these days. And it's all my fault! Oh, the humanity!

I mostly just ignore him. Of course, that whole unconditioning/reconditioning psychological mumbo jumbo is shot to hell when all three teens hear Boompas screeching out God Damn It and start laughing their damn fool heads off. Oh, well. He'll be a popular one with the principal when he finally starts kindergarten.