And That Was My Best Material, Folks

Every day when I get home, dinner is waiting for me. Sometimes it's just getting to the eating point and other times it's already sitting at the table, tapping its little food foot at me with its even smaller food hand on its odd little edible hip.

I don't know. Just bear with me here.

Surrounding my dinner is my family. My husband, usually a little haggard after prepping the meal with two kids in tow. Crazyman, looking wild-eyed and fitting of his name and Monkeygirl, with her general look of confusion and bewilderment that she wears at all times.

Every day I think how freaking lucky I am and I dig my fork into my impending feast with a zest for life. And then it happens. All hell breaks loose. Crazyman doesn't want to eat, doesn't want to sit in his seat, doesn't want to get down, but doesn't want to be up either.

Monkeygirl, sits, still quiet and bewildered and the Man? He yells. Still in his work clothes, he looks frazzled and I can tell an epic battle just ensued moments before I walked in the door. I know he's come in the door and it's like a magical little stop-watch clicked with a weirder, magical voice yelling 'Go!' and his daily marathon of having to answer Monkeygirl's questions, unload the dishwasher with Crazyman's super-not-helpful help, averting Crazyman's attempts at helping himself to a Crazyman snack all while prepping a nutritious dinner for our eating pleasure begins.

I glance down at the dog, willing her to give me the solution that will allow all of us to enjoy a calm and peaceful meal. As I stare into her watery, brown, doggy eyes I can sense that I better place my plate on the floor and back away slowly for her chowing pleasure or my head will explode and she'll take it from me in a vicious coup.

Last night, I got home early. As I dodged the football that came flying down the stairs I saw that dinner wasn't ready. Finally, here was my chance at greatness and understanding. I thought I could be helpful and distract the kids who were simultaneously playing a raucous game of football, measuring out 3 cups of noodles, watching Yo Gabba Gabba and declaring that monkeys say 'mama'. So I randomly went back and forth between the kitchen and the living room, saying silly things and making Crazyman dance. I was charming and funny. I was awesome and the 'mama' that the monkey was talking about. I was displaying my best, kid-distracting, husband-amusing material.

As it turns out? I'm apparently retarded, not at all helpful and the bane of my husband's existence.

And just for the record, it's carried over into today with a discussion of non-disposable training pants and a new winter coat. Let the record show that I'm into day two of being retarded and the bane of my husband's existence.

I presume that the record should show that I've held this title for several years, but I can't think about that now. It's all news to me.

I'll do my best to uphold my title and not disgrace it in any way. Heavy is the retarded head that wears the crown.