It's 6:00 p.m., the apex of a time called, variously, "arsenic hour," the "five o'clock jits," or -- of my own devising -- "why, yes, they are for sale; just name your price." He'en is fake-crying in her room, where she has been Time-Outed for unthinkingly spitting on me (2 minutes), plus slamming her door in response to the spitting time-out (5 minutes).
I tried to turn this into a Math Lesson Teachable Moment, but her receptivity was not high. Minutes before, she had added one (1) egg plus two (2) eggs preparatory to making cupcakes, and on her own she had proudly cracked three (3) eggs into a bowl without any shell. How swiftly we plummet from the mountaintop to the laundry, poor kid. Wail! Lament! Occasional pitiful cry of "MOM....myyyyyyyy!" (Beseech me not for help. Who do you think put you IN there?)
The coked-out hound is throwing herself against the door in a barking frenzy, trying to bite the glass to gain re-entry to the house. She was exiled to the porch after we returned home from the grocery store to find shattered glass all over the kitchen floor. The dog is not in Time Out, per se, but I put her out there so that she didn't run through the glass and cut her pads, and leaving her there seemed a good idea for the nonce.
The baby is the best of the lot, sitting in her little lounger with a friendly blank look, blowing bubbles and waving her limbs in a slow kelplike fashion. Soon, I expect, she will get bored and add her voice to the throng, but for now I've attained a small island of peace. I wonder how long I can leave everybody locked in / locked out before someone calls Child Control and Animal Services . . . or is that Animal Control and Child Services?
Actually, either is fine. Just name your price.