Don't Make Me Come In There

I hear you in there, sweet children of mine.  It started out as goofy giggling and escalated from there.  The tone has turned from one of amusement to irritation.  I sometimes wonder if you can get along with one another for ten minutes straight.

The sounds drift muffled from the other room, but I'm pretty sure I just heard someone yell, "Shut up!" and another shout back, "You can't tell me what to do!"  I hear stomping feet and the dog's tap dancing toenails as he waits for someone to please drop something to eat, he'd be more than happy to perform his dogly duties and clean it up.  He's always the winner in these altercations.  Please tell me I didn't just hear someone say, "Ow."

"Don't make me come in there."

I shout at them, sounding a bit too much like my mother. The "or else" is implied.  It sounds like a harsh command, bellowed by a grumpy drill sergeant and holds all the promise of corporal punishment, of privileges lost, of maternal rejection.

It surprises me that it comes out sounding so brutal and punitive.  Because it's really a desperate plea.  I know it's made in vain, but I want to just sit here so very badly.  I want to just sit here in this chair and not think, just sip cheap wine and waste time playing Angry Birds.  I don't feel like I have the energy to be the responsible and engaged mama for one more minute.  It's been a hard day.  I'm physically drained.  I've been to the end of my emotional string.  I've refereed enough fights, found enough lost things, cleaned enough messes, answered enough questions.

Have mercy on this tired woman, I beg.  Just please...PLEASE...

"Don't make me come in there."