No place like home

The most turmoil with the kids usually strikes toward the end of the week.

I don't know if it's because we're all so eager for a weekend that we're ready to pounce. Well, honestly, some among us - I'm not naming names - do actually pounce.

But it's usually an, "It was an accident," sort of pounce that happens when one of them jumps off the couch and oddly enough, lands on one of her sisters. She didn't really mean it, mind you.

Or maybe it's because of this new routine of buses and schools and after-school conversations that begin with, "How was school today?" and end hours later as I finally squeeze something, anything out of one of my 3-year-olds.

"We sat like this, criss-cross applesauce," she'll tell me just before bed. "Him go to time-out."

And as many conversations as I've had throughout my life - conversations about politics, the meaning of life, why a frog pees when you hold it in your hand - none have been quite as challenging.

Because one of my girls especially, shares only when she feels like sharing. And it's usually just bits and pieces. 

So when she finally talks, I listen. 

I don't always understand what she's trying to tell me, but I want her to know that I'm always trying. 

And so it goes throughout the week, this new routine.

As much as they all seem to like school, it's not unusual for at least one or two of my kids to get upset afterwards about the simplest of things, everything or nothing at all, depending on how you look at it. 

Sometimes, all it takes is a crooked Velcro strap on a shoe and it's all downhill.

So was the case on a recent Friday night when my oldest packed a bag and told me she was going. She wasn't sure where, just somewhere else.

I don't know exactly what set her off, perhaps the fact that I had turned the volume down on the CD she was blaring. 

Hannah or Miley or whatever her name is, was bellowing, "It's the cliiiimmmmb!" so loudly  that I could feel my ear drums banging, trying to wiggle their way out of my head and escape.