It’s been a rough day here in the Venomous Household. Delightful as it was having VH home for five straight days, the house is now a pigsty.

Meanwhile, the Big-Eyed Boy came down with both poison ivy and Swimmer’s Ear over the weekend, both of which necessitated middle-of-the-night medications and comforting. Although he’s mostly recovered, I have not: at 40 years old (41 in 2 weeks, for those keeping track of such things), I don’t mess with “beauty sleep” anymore. I sleep to escape my aches and pains. Also, my kids.

So this morning when the BEB was up at the crack o’ dawn after a mere 6 hours of sleep, I knew it was going to be a long, miserable day. A day on which I’d be eyeballing the liquor cabinet even as I poured my first cup of coffee. A day on which I’d be lucky to squeeze in a quick shower, all the while knowing that a leisurely bath was out of the question. (Too much temptation to see just how long I could hold my breath before passing out.)

One would think by now that my kids had learned to tell the difference between when Mommy is smiling and when she’s just clenching her teeth. It seems an easy enough distinction to me: the latter is usually accompanied by a loud grinding sound, whereas the former is accompanied by a martini handed to me by my husband… who simultaneously announces that he is taking over parenting duties for the rest of the evening.

One would also think that my kids would realize that just because Mommy’s voice doesn’t sound like she’s about to have an aneurysm doesn’t mean she’s not about to. The clue is s not so much how I say something as what I say.

For instance, if I say: “What would you like for lunch?” it’s a sign I’m feeling a bit flexible. On the other hand: “Do you want chicken strips with fruit salad or leftover scraps of whatever the heck that green thing is underneath your bed?” means it’s probably time to clean underneath their beds. After lunch. Which is going to be chicken strips with fruit salad, so don’t even bother asking for egg salad, got it?

Likewise, our family tends to use lots of pet names for each other: “Sweetie”, “Honey”, “Angel”, “Little Guy” and “You, not not the cat, YOU“. But if Mom calls them by their actual names — not even the first and middle names together, mind you (because both of their middle names are mouthfuls and too much to expect any one frazzled mom to utter when completely and totally stressed out) — that’s a sign they’d better listen up. Now.

But do they get it? The oldest one does, possibly because after surviving sixteen long years (17 next month) she sees the light at the end of the tunnel. (The shadow she sees there is me waving my arms frantically, beckoning her on.) The little one, my Big-Eyed Boy? Clueless.

Witness, for instance, his question of just a few minutes ago after he’d dumped his Matchbox Cars into the machine along with a full bottle of Tide and started flinging the suds everywhere.

“Mommy, why are you counting to ten? Is it because you’re worried you’re so old you might forget how to do it if you don’t practice?”

It’s a good thing my son is so darned cute, I tell you. A very good thing.

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