Prisoner In My Own Home

Okay, so this post will probably read slightly dramatic if I am writing it correctly.

My kids are at the age - and let's be honest - have been at the age since their births - that I am now a prisoner in my home.

Thankfully I can escape now and again thanks to my porch railing and baby gate. Let's refer to that as the prison yard shall we?

When I see moms out and about running errands effortlessly with their one, two, three, four and sometimes five children, I wonder what that is like. What is it like to walk somewhere with your kids - like into a store - and one of them isn't trying to run away and the other one isn't trying to bite your hand in order to free it's grasp on his hand?

What's that like?

For moms who are reading this and can perform this type of sorcery, please share your secrets with me.

Wait. Don't. Actually I don't want to know.

Where is this all stemming from?

Well I will tell you.

Today I went to my MOD group that was supposed to be held at the church, but ended up having to switch venues to the leader's house. If I am honest, I never ever ever go anywhere with my two kids by myself unless I am going to my mom and dad's house or we are piling in the car to go for one of my sacred quiet-time drives. I had immediate misgivings about taking my unruly children in this leader's beautiful home - though let me be clear in saying that she has been wonderful, supportive and has gone through these same trials herself and has lived to tell about it. But despite these misgivings, I thought I needed to push myself. I am trying really hard to get myself involved in things and out and about with my difficult kids. We even attempted going to the park the other day.

But after that failed and today failed (you will read why in a second), well...I am just going to lean into this, my friends.

My oldest hooligan was running, screaming, jumping, scratching and hitting every person he came in contact with as well as laughing hysterically about it. My youngest hooligan played nicely for awhile but then it came time for nap time and all hell broke loose. He threw a toy up against the piano and it smashed into smithereens. He tried to bite me. He banged his head on the floor over and over and over again. It should come as no surprise that I lost it. I went to the brink of insanity, crying hysterically to these women who soothed me because they have all been there.

And then we finally left. And then we drove around and there was so much screaming. Mike texted me, "Erin, get an iced tea!" which is my treat at McDonalds and I responded with, "I can't! The screams are so loud they couldn't hear my order."

So we came home, collapsing into our beds with broken spirits. My spirit has been broken several times since throughout the day - when my kids kept running away at Grandpa and Grandma's, at bath time and now right this second as my kids are both screaming in their rooms over the injustice that is bed time.

So why fight this?

I have resolved to never ever ever leave my house again. And if I am going to be a prisoner in my own home, which is apparently the joint goal of my children, then I want to actually like my cell, my cot and my jumpsuit - if I am going to be surrounded around them 24/7/365.

So Mike Honey, if you are reading this...get that credit card ready because we are going to IKEA. You have been warned.

But wait. That means I actually have to leave the house now that I think about it. I will make this one time exception.

Disclaimer: I'm fine. Really. I think. I am pretty sure I am okay. This post has been percolating in my head all day, and I thought it might be kind of funny. And now I feel better for having written it.