Bad Seeds

Last night I did a little trick I like to call "eating four chewy chocolate chip cookies right quick in a row". This trick is also known as "countdown to Shark Week".

Think about it.

I had just been to Daz Bog where a barista once--I am reasonably certain--stalked me. This time the overly chatty barista--and they are all overly chatty at Daz Bog--was a cute college boy with whom I accidentally flirted and who told me my husband was lucky.

He was impressed that I like to drink beer and watch football, see?

At which point I asked him if he would like to see my lovely soft belly that I have acquired through birthing babies, drinking beer, and watching football. He wanted a look so bad that he turned rather pale and couldn't meet my eye.

Oh well. Next time, college boy, you shall not let opportunity slip like gold dust through your fingers, shall you?

I had taught him a valuable lesson.

True to their natures of undistilled evil, the girls sensed that T-minus 24 hours to Shark Week would be an ideal time to wait until I got into the shower, take the six rolls of just-bought toilet paper, and unravel them in their room.

Kali is a demanding goddess. The goblins dare not disobey.

I sent them in to clean up their mess.

They figured throwing all their toys on the floor and tearing all the sheets off their beds would be a suitable offering for their pagan lords.

Then they did something else that I don't want to repeat. But it involves bodily fluids.

I'll tell you what. At this point my mascara is running from tears of frustration and, I am a little ashamed to admit, my throat is raw from screaming.

The wisdom of my body said "cookies!" and also "spinach salad!"

(Ok actually it said "WINE". But this was 9:45 in the morning).

It also said, "Text Mr. V repeatedly while he is sick and working an 11 hour day and whine about the depravity of your daughters!"

Eckhart Tolle once said that being a parent to young children is the only spiritual discipline you need and that's about where I am at this point.

So now we come to: Devil Mommy has removed herself from evil's presence long enough to stop crying and screaming and now she is getting a little bit--it must be said--giddy at the thought of the punishments she is about to dole out.

And Devil Mommy comes to Little Starbuck and tells her that she is not allowed to watch tv or be on the computer for two days, and she will not have treats, and what is more, she will NOT have CHOCOLATE MILK for NIGH-NIGHTS.

Somewhere in my heart a tiny demon is rubbing its hands together and gleefully anticipating tears. At fist the umbilical cord will not abide tears. Then you hit the point when it thirsts for them. You've turned a corner.

And Little Starbuck, all sweet as a tulip, says: That's ok. I don't like chocolate milk anymore. I just want water.

And Devil Mommy poofs into smoke and I--this bewildered, scoured out, raw heap of what remains--shake my head at her and admit to both of us that she is truly a master of her craft.

-Vesuvius in Peril, signing off.