Waterfalls.

Bliss, tranquil serenity. The calming of a slow trickle as it follows its lazy course.

My eyes flutter, but the sluggish sound of water doesn’t dissipate as my bedroom comes into the view of my incessantly tired eyes.

Now conscious, what presented as a lazy stream is more reminiscent of a dam bursting during Mississippi flood season. Most mothers would probably spring out of bed into action…most. I, on the other hand, roll my eyes, toss back the covers, and only after stretching to relieve the ache in my lower back do I stand to go investigate.

Across the hall from the master is my oldest’s room. I peak my head in, finding my indifferent nine-year-old sitting on his bed watching Johnny Test for the eleventy-billionth time. Michael doesn’t even pull his eyes from the screen to acknowledge me. Nothing new there. The pull of the modern-day Dennis the Menace has him entranced. I shrug as I pull the door closed. He’ll come out when he’s hungry.

The spraying noise that roused me grows louder, more forceful, as I make my way down the hall. Grateful my toes are still dry when I reach the threshold outside the kids’ bathroom, I question whether to just leave it alone. The carpet isn’t wet yet. There’s still time to get the coffee going and a few minutes to inwardly debate the ongoing struggle between day drinking and moving to Colorado so smoking pot isn’t as frowned upon.

I push the door open. The giggling and splashing stops with its usual abruptness. My twins, Aiden and Ethan, are sitting in an overflowing bathtub with the showerhead raining down even more water on their devious little heads. Shaving cream marks their faces and half of the wall. A handful of plastic tampon applicators float around them.

My hands clench at my sides as I try to remind myself that I wanted children. I actually spent the time to plan for these tiny terrors. I gave up caffeine for them, skipped that trip to the amusement park, and choked down those ridiculously large prenatal vitamins for over a year. And this is how they repay me?

My middle child’s eyes meet mine, apprehensive and pleading, as his little six-year-old hand reaches up and turns the faucet so the downpour stops. Ethan, always the quickest to join in on a bad idea, is also always the first to feel the remorse—the first to ask forgiveness. He’s kind, so damn loving, and the easiest person to be manipulated into dubious situations.

My youngest, only by a few minutes, faces me with the same challenge that’s always set in his inquisitive eyes. Aiden is the leader of this Twosome Terror—too smart for his own damn good. His teachers use terms like “good negotiator,” “detail oriented,” and “charismatic leadership skills.” Which we all know just translates to: would argue with a fence post and nosy as hell. Guess who else had “charismatic leadership skills”? Hitler, Charles Manson, and Ted Bundy.

For a fraction of a second, I want to go head to head with the stubborn boy, stoop to his genius forty-five-pound level, show him who’s boss, and stick out my tongue after asserting my Momma Power…but I don’t. And it’s not because I’m the bigger person or good moms don’t do that kind of thing. I’ve just tried it before and he digs in harder. Good parenting is difficult enough as it is, and it’s Sunday. I don’t have time for that mess.

“I just bought that can of shaving gel,” I say with a quick jab of my finger in the direction of the discarded and obviously empty blue can on the bathroom floor.

Piled almost a foot tall at the base of the tub, even the decorative towels we don’t use regularly are over saturated from their playing. Seeing that I realize why the carpet isn’t wet outside of the door. Being the preemptive little devils they’ve learned to be—by trial and error, mind you, not critical thinking—they’ve used what looks to be every single towel from the linen closet to soak up the gallons of water they’ve splashed on the floor.

I roll my bottom lip between my teeth, eyes squinting at the corners from the sharp pain when I press a little too hard. This makes it difficult to take the in-through-the-mouth/out-through-the-nose calming breaths my therapist recommended after I cried on her couch for thirty minutes because I felt like a failure for yelling too much. She says what I’m feeling is normal and just comes with being a parent. If she could hear the thoughts bouncing around in my head right now, she’d have me committed. On a positive note, at least it prevents the screaming—for a little while, anyway.

“We smell pretty, mom.” I ignore Ethan’s cute attempt to distract me when Aiden pipes in.

“We shouldn’t be left alone,” he says, his tone saccharine sweet. The echo of a phrase I’ve said a million times rings all around the steam-filled room as the adorable dimple he got from his handsome father pops out. I wish I could say I’m immune to that precious little dip, but I’m not, and this tiny tyrant knows it.

“Clearly,” I manage once my teeth relinquishes my lip.

“We can’t have nice things,” Ethan mutters, looking down at the shaving cream can, his words also an echo of things I’ve said.

They can’t remember to brush their teeth in the morning and before bed, but snide remarks muttered under my breath are like second nature. Winning mother of the year over here, ladies and gents.

If my husband were here, he’d laugh, tell me boys will be boys, and offer to carry the additional two loads of new laundry down the stairs to the washer. What he wouldn’t do is toss in the soap, turn on the machine, and fold them once they’re dry. And that is why, even though I could strangle him for being gone all the time, I’m also glad he’s not here, helping without being helpful.

“Do you purposefully do things like this to upset me?” I all but pat myself on the back for keeping calm and not adding a hint of menace to my voice.

“You scare us when you get angry,” Aiden’s sweet, little, manipulation-masked-as-fear voice whispers.

My jaw drops when Ethan nods in agreement, and my heart cracks a little knowing he can see the dismay in my eyes. He may be a follower, manipulated by his twin, but he’s a softy and has an uncanny ability to read emotions like a horse (look it up, it’s totally a thing. Well…it was in The Law of Moses—excellent book BTW…go grab it… No, wait…finish reading, then go get it.)

I digress.

“But we still love you when you’re angry,” Ethan adds.

Without another word, I unplug the bathtub, doing my best to ignore the squish of my toes in the soaked towels.

“I’m not angry,” I lie.

“Your nose is doing that thing,” Aiden points out. “The dragon nose scares us, Mommy.”

Mommy?

Cute, right?

Yeah, he only uses it when he knows he’s in trouble. Used to pull on my heart strings—not anymore. Mostly.

“I’m…” I pause, searching for an appropriate word.

Telling them pulling the plug on the tub is for their safety doesn’t seem right. I’m upset, not trying to scar them for life. No matter how many times my twisted personality has shown through and I’ve mentioned “filling the tub,” what Andrea Yates did was reprehensible. I know how screwed up it is, hence my therapy appointments every week. Don’t get me started on how many times my friends have muttered the words “too soon.”

“I’m a little frustrated,” I finish. “But it’ll be okay. Let’s get you guys dried off so you can go outside and jump on the trampoline.”

Translation: go play before I lose my shit. The more energy you use, the earlier I can put you to bed tonight.

Surprisingly, they both comply, which in and of itself isn’t suspicious, but when Aiden whispers, “Let’s hurry and get dressed before she goes downstairs,” I know my trouble has only begun.

As I take pictures for proof, either for my husband when he asks how my day has been or the twin’s high school graduation slideshow, I try not to blame myself.

Would I be dealing with this if I had managed to get up before them? No.

Was the extra hour of sleep worth it? Sticky sponge in hand, I take a step back and assess the damage. I have no less than an hour and a half of cleaning to do. Two hours, if I attempt to scrub off the sight words scrawled in permanent marker on the cabinet near the sink. This week, the extra hour of sleep wasn’t worth it, but next week is a whole other animal. And I live for that moment.

My ninety minute assessment was nothing more than hopeful thinking. Make it a solid two and a half hours, without even touching the cabinets, after I found the concoction of pure vanilla extract, dish soap, and several other ingredients I’m at a loss of recognizing coating the inside of my baking goods cabinet.

I chastise myself for forgetting to take a picture of that little gem as I wring out the sponge.

“Can you make me something to eat?” I turn and glare at Michael, appalled that he dare show his face now that all the work is done.

“Where were you while they were destroying the kitchen?”

He shrugs, disinterested in my mild outburst. He’s immune to it, accustomed to my barking, since my bite isn’t bad. It’s not that I can’t follow through, I’m usually just too lazy to commit.

“You can make your own sandwich,” I return, feeling vindictive.

“Really?” he huffs. “But I’m only nine, Mom.”

I chuckle a humorless laugh. “Not going to work with me, bucko.”

“I’m pretty sure this is child abuse,” he mutters, heading to the fridge to look for something that doesn’t require any form of work.

I laugh in earnest, knowing I didn’t make it to the grocery store to stock up on Friday. I was at a meeting with the principle, and after throwing a fit at their suggestion that homeschooling may be better suited for Aiden, I forgot to go.

Me? Homeschool? I nearly lost my mind trying to teach Michael to tie his shoes. Could you imagine me trying to teach them to read? No thanks. I prefer to hang onto what little sanity I have left.

“There’s nothing to eat,” he complains, letting the door close on its own.

“We have everything you need to make a sandwich.”

“I can’t—”

“Child, I’ve seen you put together a thousand piece Lego set in an afternoon. Don’t give me that mess.”

He grumbles under his breath, and I don’t catch all of it, but the “I wish Dad were here” rubs me the wrong way.

“You can make one for each of your brothers as well,” I tell him.

Gasping, he flips around so fast, he drops the bread he’s pulling out of the cabinet onto the floor. His eyes meet mine, and he must see the same challenge I always find in Aiden’s, because he just nods and sets to work.

I glance outside to make sure the boys aren’t trying to set the neighbor’s dog on fire, and find them bouncing piles of leaves on the trampoline. Feeling more settled, I slump down on the sofa, taking a few needed minutes to relax and question just how bad I’m messing my kids up.

If I’m too lenient—soft, as my husband calls it—I raise entitled little assholes who will be hated by the world. If I’m too hard, too demanding, too strict, DCS calls it abuse. The gap between the rock and the hard place is getting smaller and smaller. The line is getting impossibly too thin, not crossing over it in one way or another is seemingly impossible.

I question everything. I feel unappreciated, which is clear from my malicious insistence Michael make the twins food for his little dad comment, but on the other hand, I feel guilty for making him do something that would be considered a parent’s responsibility. Then, I contemplate whether it’s my job or I can convince all parties involved cooking is a required chore.

The boys eventually come in from outside. I give them a once over at the back door before they gain entry into the somewhat clean house. After they pass the no-poop-on-the-shoes inspection, they shove and taunt each other into the family room. The real arguing doesn’t begin until Netflix is loaded and they fight over who got to pick last. When I complained over a video chat last week about this daily issue, Scott, my long-lost husband, came up with the ingenious solution to get rid of Netflix. In response, I clicked the little red X in the right-hand corner before he could come up with something equally as stupid and ghosted him when he tried to reconnect. Who does he think he is coming at me with that mess? Does he not want them alive when he gets home?

“Work it out,” I tell them as I follow them into the room.

“If you don’t let me pick, she’s going to make us watch that penguin show again,” Aiden sneers.

I shrug. He isn’t lying. I love Morgan Freeman’s voice in anything, but pair him with cute little tuxedo wearing animals and you get cinematic gold. March of the Penguins didn’t nearly get the recognition it deserved, but the kids don’t share my sentiments.

“Anything but this,” I mutter as the opening sequence of Johnny Test begins. I head back into the kitchen to grab the begrudgingly prepared PB&Js from the counter and bring them to the boys.

Yes, not at the dining room table. And why, you may be asking in that judgmental voice in your head. Settle down, Susan. There are important things on it right now, and I don’t want sticky fingers making a mess.

Okay, that’s partially a lie. It’s covered in last week’s laundry I couldn’t be bothered to fold all week.

“I wanted two sandwiches,” Ethan complains when I put the plate down in front of him.

“Sure,” I tell him, trying to remember when Michael hit his growth spurts.

I wouldn’t have questioned it had Aiden asked—his eyes have always been bigger than his stomach—but Ethan is my little environmentalist. He doesn’t waste anything, to the point of hoarding anything with a recycle triangle on it. Thank you, Curious George, for that obsession.

Think I’m joking? Need me to show you a picture of the tiny seedlings hanging out in my kitchen window sill in the yogurt containers he pilfered home in his lunch box. He’s resourceful too. I have numerous containers, even though we buy the same brand every week.

“Since you’re up, Mom,” Michael calls out as I head back to make another sandwich.

I turn around, narrowing my eyes and trying to hide my smile. I know what he’s going to ask. I saw the empty plate on the table. He’s lazy; that’s nothing new. “Opportunistic” his teacher would say.

He smiles, looking so much like his father, my heart melts a little.

“Please?” he asks, offering me the empty plate.

I chuckle, but take the plate from him anyway.

“You’re a hungry, hungry hippo this week,” I say to Ethan as I head to the kitchen.

“I’m not the hippo,” his little voice replies. “You’re the hippo.”

Even Aiden has the wherewithal to gasp.

“You can’t just call mom fat.” Michael smacks his younger brother in the arm. Usually I’d get on to him for hitting, but he’s defending my honor, so I let it slide.

“That’s not nice, Ethan.” Ethan looks up at me, his eyes sad from getting chastised by the other boys.

“Besides,” Michael adds. “I’m pretty sure it’s a glandular disorder.”

The fuck?

Michael looks up at me, a grin from ear to ear, so pleased he helped the boys understand exactly why my stomach is no longer flat and my hips flare more than they used to. Of course it has nothing to do with growing and birthing three children, two in tandem. Nope. Nothing at all.

“Always helpful, son.” I turn back to the kitchen.

“You’ve prepared your whole life for this level of patience,” I remind myself as I pull the peanut butter from the cabinet.

The DMV, New York Times Crossword, the fumbling hands of my high school boyfriend who somehow managed to make everyone believe he was some kind of player only to be proven to be a bumbling virgin—Jesus, the patience required for that idiot.

Shaking my head, I make Ethan’s sandwich. It’s possible I make it with only half the love I normally do and carry it back out to him, hoping he can taste the difference.

“Thanks,” he offers as I hand him the second sandwich.

Yep, now I’m an asshole.

“Sure thing, bud.” I ruffle his already messy hair before sitting back down, a silent apology for unintentionally being the catalyst to hurt my feelings.

Is this normal—the bi-polarness of my emotions? Happy, sad, annoyed, murderous all mixed together with the love, protection, and urge to self-harm. It can’t be, right?

I grab my laptop, pop the top, and set to researching whether my ability to switch emoting as fast as the clock ticks seconds away is something I should be concerned about. I find self-help books, links to mental institutions, and one hipster blog advocating the healing power of mediations.

I snort. Like I haven’t tried mediations. I can’t block out the time I attempted it and Aiden caught the curtain on fire with the candle he yanked when my eyes were closed. I don’t know exactly when it happened, but I smelled the smoke somewhere around my thousandth ohm, woosah, or whatever the hell little chant was suggested.

Bored with the judgmental assholes on Google, I head over to Facebook—or, more specifically, A Mom’s No Judgement Free Zone (it’s totally real. Go check it out.) This place is safe. These ladies know my struggle. They fight it daily.

We’re the type of awesomeness who may spend four hours creating boards on Pinterest about healthy, organic, perfect lunches for our growing little prodigies even though we know the hobbits are going to get a Lunchable and yogurt cup because at least all the food groups are covered.

Except Jaime. Jaime’s too perfect with her fifteen-color iced cookies, star charts, and homemade bullet journals.

Composition notebooks are perfectly fine, Jaime…

I giggle at a meme posted in the group and my eyes immediately dart up. A relieved breath rushes past my lips when I find all three boys still entranced in how to build a helicopter from a handful of geometric shapes. The last thing I need is to spark their interest. Three hours of cat videos on Facebook is not my idea of a good time. Well, at least not under the supervision of my children. On my own? I could rock that kind of entertainment for twice as long…allegedly. I smile when my eyes find the pile of laundry on the dining room table. Yeah, that was a good day.

Despite the stressful way the day began, the rest of the afternoon and early evening go by with surprising, uneventful ease. It’s like they conspire to drive me nuts, but know when to reign it in. Dinner was pizza delivery because once I opened the laptop, grocery shopping fell the wayside—again. It means I’ll have to either attempt to send checks for school lunches (who can ever remember the Dietary Services login info?) or stop at a gas station, make a purchase, and ask for small bills in the morning.

I sigh, making a mental note to only hit the snooze button twice. The last time I sent a check, instructing Michael to let his teacher know it needed to be split between all three boys, his ever-helpful soul tore it into three nearly equal parts (he got half and the twins each got a quarter).

I spend an hour in bliss as my sweet little angels veg out, growing sleepy on the couch just before bed. Once I got them in their beds, only twice was I interrupted with “I need to pee,” and “I’m thirsty.”

I smile at another successful week of parenting as I settle back into my recliner with every intention of pulling up the “saved” posts and videos I couldn’t risk watching with the kids in the room. Just as I’m about to click on a naked men carrying purses video, I hear the not so silent patter of feet coming down the stairs.

“I swear on all that is holy, Aiden…” I stop when Michael’s toes, then chocolate brown eyes come into view. “What’s up, buddy?”

I close my laptop just in case he needs an extra hug before bed. It doesn’t happen often, but some days he forgets he’s my big boy and needs a little one-on-one time.

I hold my arms out so he can step inside. He doesn’t. My eyes narrow, already knowing what’s coming.

“Don’t,” I warn.

“I have some homework,” he whispers.

I shake my head, as if denying its existence will make it disappear.

“Homework?” I raise my eyebrow for clarification. He wouldn’t be this nervous with a worksheet, or forgetting to write his spelling words. Those things can be done before school without parental supervision.

“Well, it’s more like a fun assignment.”

“Your kind of fun includes a trifold board, construction paper, and ten step project.”

“It’s nothing like that, Mom,” he huffs like I’ve told a joke.

“Just tell me, son.”

“It’s a volcano!” His eyes light up and a grin spreads the width of his cheeks.

I narrow my eyes. How in the world is he that excited about something, yet forgets until nearly nine at night?

“When is it due?”

He’s pulled this before, once, and it turned out we had a week to get it done. Needless to say, I wasn’t happy about being out in the yard with a flashlight looking for different shaped leaves when it could’ve waited until the next day.

“The fifteenth.” His enthusiasm falters when I pick up my cell phone and look down at the date.

“Tomorrow,” I clarify.

He nods, and I wonder if he can hear the grinding of my teeth. It’s like thunder in my ears.

Before setting my phone down, I type out a quick text to my husband.

I’m hiring a nanny.

“Okay, bud. Let’s make a volcano.”