A picture's worth a thousand screams.
Recently my lil' dude and I gathered with seven of my girlfriends and their equally small children (12 collectively; the oldest three; the youngest three weeks) to
permanently dye babies and destroy boiled eggs decorate Easter eggs.
Have you ever been in a room with 12 children ages three and under?
I'm not talking about in a calm and controlled daycare setting. No, I'm talking about mommy-is-having-adult-conversation-and-interaction-for-the-first-time-in-days-so-leave-me-alone-and-go-play as we shamelessly turn our heads when we glimpse our 12 small children picking each other's noses and cramming each other's heads through the stairway rails.
If you've been there, then you know what it's like to be trapped in a cage with feral monkeys, flying feces and all.
So when someone announced, "Let's get a picture of all the kids together," I immediately thought, five-months-pregnant or not, where's the booze?
Not to mention, said photo session was to take place AFTER we dyed our children orange, fed them sugar-stuffed sugar cups, and let them rip each other's hair out. Oh, and did I mention it was naptime?
So a shot of Easter juice later, I placed my darling-beyond-belief 12-month old on the couch among the 11 others.
Have you heard the phrase, shoot hit the fan (or something like that)? Well, shoot hit the fan. But the instigator wasn't the colicky newborn or the feisty diva, it wasn't the fussy two-year old or vomiting infant, it was:
So as I scooped up Mister Nightmare, all I could do was shrug my shoulders and say, "more Easter juice, please!"