Calm before the Storm

The Christmas Rush is on it's last legs and I am slowly recovering from the associated post-traumatic stress disorder I suffer from.

Toys are being confiscated at the smallest squabble, all decorations have been removed from sight,  neglected or broken toys have been disposed of, sustained injuries are being left unattended, and I have resigned from Lego building duty.  Incidents of stress induced hives have diminished and I no longer have the Christmas furrow between my eyes.

Now, I just have to make it through Alexandra's 8th birthday. I am already getting a headache thinking about it. 

Wake Me When It's Over

The tree is up; the house is decorated, sort of; present shopping is almost complete; I have heard so many Christmas songs, I now hate them; and I have ranted at the people who go overboard with
Christmas lights. 

I am no longer frugal, but cheap.  I gave a woman what for when she tried to butt into a check-out line.  I shot a young man the evil eye after he ran into me with his cart and did not apologize.   I even told off a parking attendant who tried telling me that I was not old enough to have a handicap parking permit. 

I have turned into Scrooge. 

Pulling My Hair Out

I really wonder how small minds work. 

Why would a five year old think that urinating in a garbage is okay?  Why does my seven year old rip her toys to shreds when she is sent to her room?  What is it about one's brother that provokes a fist fight first thing in the morning?  Why is getting a hair cut harder than a trip to the dentist?  If you don't like your brother in your room, why should he let you in his?  Why is the aftermath of a time out worse than the original offense?  Did you really think I would not notice the empty sugar canister in your room?   You aren't the cause of all the Barbie's being decapitated?  I know you wrote your name on the wall, I can read it! You did touch the Christmas tree because it is no longer in the upright position.

AARGH!!!