Momicide

Murder is largely classed as unacceptable behavior, but who hasn't felt like they could just kill someone? It's not a real threat of actual intent to cease life (usually), it's just a giant indicator that one has reached a certain level of frustration with a situation that must stop at almost any cost. That's what momicide is: a verbal or emotional outpouring of complete exasperation - often aimed at husband, child, relative - whereby were we not to live in a civilized society, GBH (that would be grievous bodily harm as opposed to Great Blue Herons) would be imminent.

Oh, gasp, horror, you know what I'm talking about. You experience something similar regularly, and I suspect, were you to be honest with anyone other than yourself, you'd say it was daily. Often hourly. Most likely most of the time your child isn't asleep or your husband out of the house.

Cam and I were up and out of the house early the other day to let Mitch sleep. By noon I'd been everywhere and done everything, and came home to him still sleeping. No big deal, he'd been at work until 3am. Between then and making a special dinner at 7pm, however, so very, very much happened for me to reach potential momicide.

Maintenance came to unclog the bathroom (toilet, tub and sinks all went at once), apparently they removed something that looked like dark brown feathers (stupid man at voodoo shop - said those chickens were biodegradable), and scratched the crap out of the porcelain. We were an hour late to an appointment, Cam puked down the side of the car when we got there but still managed to try to tear apart the office (minor relief came in seeing the men's faces when he grabbed a wayward golf club). Had hurried to get dressed in the morning and grabbed the nearest clothes, which was fine until I had to take my boots off at our Korean landlord's house and exposed two holes in my black leggings, and white gym socks. I was thrilled when they brought out china tea cups and plates (breakables) with brownies (messy), orange cheese puffs (messy and stains), cocktail forks (weapons) and put everything including the boiling water (are you serious?) on the coffee table. Got home, ran a bucket downstairs to wipe off the side of the car, came back up, turned on the oven, seared the steaks, opened the oven door to bake them and...it was all on fire with flames flickering higher and higher.

I could have killed someone. That someone being Cam, who has taken to opening the oven door and either climbing in the oven or standing on top of the door to see what's cookin', both literally and figuratively. I check it all the time for his paraphernalia, but wouldn't have been alarmed had I seen him with a few whole wheat cookies in hand, or had seen them fall down the cracks in the bottom tray. Wouldn't have crossed my mind that those would go up in flame faster than Smokey the Bear could say, "only you can prevent forest fire." Mitch saved the day, but not in time to save the steaks which were edible but not enviable.

It's this kind of stuff, on a daily basis, that makes me tired. Tired means I sigh a lot. Sighing a lot means on the edge. On the edge means momicide.