Monday Evening Theatrics in the Kitchen

It’s that time of day, late in the afternoon, as evening begins, that time of day when it’s not quite time to start cooking a simple, quick, supper, and not quite time to have people start cleaning up the colossal mess they’ve created in the chaos of the afternoon over the past two hours since nap has ended.  It’s that time of the day when most of the homework is well on its way to being finished, and people are beginning to express their cooped up feelings in crazy ways.  You know it would be good to throw them out the door, regardless of the temperature.  There are enough layers of outerwear around, probably strewn on the living room floor, to keep everyone nicely toasty outdoors.  But it would just be so much work to fight it out and get them out the door.  And by the time everyone was bundled up, it would nearly be time for them to come in and eat whatever you’re making for supper, even though you are not really a responsible parent and don’t know what it is that you are actually planning on cooking in the next half hour.

You’ve read aloud to the masses for more than an hour.  Your toddler has thrown board books and blocks at you to try to prevent you from successfully reciting the written sentences of chapter books he deems as boring.  Even boots and shoes, and sippy cups have clobbered your head.  Your voice is tired.  Your eyes are watering.  All sources of natural light are rapidly dimming.

To drown out the squabbling, the whining about the regular chores that must take place each and every night, the complaining about excessive quantities of homework that may or may not really be excessive, you turn on Minnesota Public Radio.  The volume is medium.  Your children turn it up even louder.

One is dressed like a princess.  Another is wearing her pajamas and a double fleece lined sweatshirt.  The third is dressed for success in his regular clothes that are speckled with breakfast, lunch and snack.  The fourth has disappeared from the fray altogether, hoping to avoid the tasks at hand (out of sight, out of mind).

You glance into the kitchen, at the only piece of floor free from debris in the house, and there is standing the princess.  She has grabbed a chapter book from the library and is wailing with the orchestra in the radio, using her best opera voice.  The toddler runs mad circles around her.  Before you know it, the opera has turned into a tumultuous ballet.  Whirling, twirling, spinning and leaping ensue.  The biggest sister enters the scene and you aren’t certain about the choreography of what  soon appears to be a wrestling match.  To distract everyone you give people directions to throw away some of the trash, but the prima ballerina is a bit pesky, and the frenzy of dancing escalates.  Bodies are flying around the kitchen.  You know this will not end well.  There are tumbles.  People are set back onto their feet, and the frenzy worsens.  The music is turned up even louder.  You wish you were napping.

Soon punches are thrown and the (possibly joyous?) dance has transformed into a  violent fervor, ending in all participants being sent to various corners of the house for a bit of alone time.  You open the fridge again and consider your culinary choices for the rapidly upcoming meal.  You still have no plan.