Houston, we have Bert.

The Roberts Household went to DEFCON 3 this morning.

The kids were short-snuggled because I had a seven-thirty call I was hoping to make, but with everyone getting out of bed at seven-fifteen and our needing to be in the car at eight, it was looking poorly for me. I emailed to organizer to let her know that I couldn’t make it, and that launched the Can I Type My Name in Big Letters Game, which, frankly, no.

Freakage ensued. Daphne turned into a wailing, flailing, arching she-devil and I had to wrestle her into her clothes, holding each limb as it was covered to keep her from tearing everything off. When I got to the shoes, I knew I had a problem. There is no way to keep shoes on a child’s feet if the child does not want them there. So I let her chose. She chose wooden clogs. The line was drawn: she had weapons, too.

Fast forward. The boys dressed and ate breakfast well (mostly) and we were in the car at 8:03. The attendance list goes to the office at 8:06. I was sweating, and Daphne was proclaiming her disappointment in me.

“I HATE YOU, MAMA!”

“Mom, Daphne just said she hates you,” whispered Dylan. I said nothing.

“I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!”

Logan couldn’t stand it. “Mom. That was three times.” I nodded and kept driving. Anything I said would only escalate things further, and if she heard herself shouting long enough, it would give her something to think about later.

“I hate you. You’re the worst mommy in the whole world.” She couldn’t believe I wasn’t trying to stop her.

“That’s four,” from the back seat. Suddenly the boys were a couple of guys watching the sports highlights. “OH! That’s five—no—SIX!”

She kept going. “I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you!”

Dylan deadpanned, “I hope she doesn’t go to eleven.”

“I REALLY REALLY HATE YOU!”

From the back seat.

The boys were really getting into it. By the time we pulled up to the school, they were reluctant to go. They didn’t want to miss anything.

“Mom, Daphne’s up to twenty-four now!”

“I know, honey. I’ll deal with it in a minute.”

I carried her wordlessly to Dylan’s classroom to see if I would have to go to the office to let them know he was tardy. Not this time. As we walked back to the car, I asked if she wanted to talk. She nodded. “What do you want to say?”

“I was so so sad when you carried me. I didn’t want you to carry me and I was so so mad.”

“You wouldn’t get dressed on your own and we were going to be late. It was time for school, not time for typing. And you were kicking and screaming, so I carried you.”

“I want my Dada.”

“And you will have him tonight. It’s Wednesday. You know what? I love you. Even though you said you hated me twenty-four times. It hurt my feelings. But I love you.”

“I love you too, Mama.” She wept into her balled-up blankies. So I turned on the music for her, and played her favorite song.

Well I feel like an old hobo, I’m sad lonesome and blue
I was fair as the summer day
now the summer days are through
You pass through places
and places pass through you
But you carry ‘em with you on the souls of your travellin’ shoes

Well I love you so dearly I love you so clearly
Wake you up in the mornin’ so early
Just to tell you I got the wanderin’ blues
I got the wanderin’ blues
And I’m gonna quit these ramblin’ ways one of these days soon
And I’ll sing

The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs
The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs
The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs
The littlest birds sing the prettiest song

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