After cleaning the dishes from dinner, wiping down the kitchen, and listening to my household... I realized everyone was busy. Everyone was alone with themselves and therefore not fighting. It was a rare quiet.
I gave myself the once-over. I haven't shaved in at least a week (who has time to wax?). At 5'9", covered in long red hair, I'm beginning to resemble a Yeti.
Every time I take the dog out, Bigfoot sightings increase in our area.
If my legs rub together in my sleep, I could start a fire in the bed. I've actually become my own fire hazard.
I text my husband: "Going to take a bath, don't tell anyone."
I fill the tub with vanilla sandalwood oil, light a few candles, flip my ever-present ponytail into a bun, shut the door, and ease into a rare soak. Just as my eyes shut and I start to relax,
"MOM!" Dr. Chipotle screams as the door slams open.
The lights go on as Poltergeist yells, "It wasn't my fault!"
As I try to roll in a ball and cover my large frame with a 6 x 6 washcloth, I wonder what happened to the silence so quickly.
The Bear comes in right behind the other two and starts digging in the drawers, "I'll get the scissors."
I'm not sure yet what happened, but all I can say is, "OUT! KITCHEN! NOW!"
Our four boys all have a nickname:
The Bear, 16, second in command, sleeps like he's in hibernation and will maul you if you wake him.
Muttley, 15, laughs like the cartoon dog, introvert, always quietly plotting.
Dr. Chipotle, 13, resident scientist, has a thing for spicy cheese.
The Poltergeist (or PG), 10, leaves a path of destruction, but has never been seen doing it.
If I walked in on any of them in the bathroom, I'd be stoned to death, my ears would bleed from the shrieking, but I'm not afforded the same privacy. I'm "Mom".
So, dripping and in a robe, I enter the kitchen. Buster, AKA Daddy, and Muttley are in his office watching videos on the computer so it's me and The Three.
"He spit gum in my hair!" Chipotle starts.
"Did not! I was spitting it in the trash when he walked in front of it!"
The Bear just put the scissors on the counter with one hand, texting with the other, and leaves, seeing he's not needed.
I hold up my hand for silence. I really don't want to know where Poltergeist was when he was "trying to make the trash can with his chewed gum from a distance" and I'm afraid to ask.
I look at PG, "Get the olive oil and a comb."
I look at Chipotle, "Sit on the stool."
Crisis averted, everyone is back to their silent spots, except Dr. Chipotle who is showering out the olive oil.
I go rinse off in the shower, still haven't shaved, and towel up the water I tracked through the house. Then I pour a glass of wine and resume my spot where I always stand, on guard, in the kitchen.
I still resemble a Yeti.
I dream of a day at the spa where I get my nails done, feet massaged, and all the hair that shouldn't be there removed, but for now, I'll trade it for the blessed few moments of silence. Maybe a cookie or two from my secret stash...