Was it just yesterday that I extolled the virtues of snowy day s and cold weather?
Couldn’t be . . .
And if it WAS, I take it all back, every last bit. I have, it turns out, changed my mind.
Cabin fever has seeped into the bones of my children and quite possibly, myself. I spent yesterday in a moping funk with the children bickering and howling around me. Not the finest of moments (or hours, as the case may be . . . ), I tell you.
Tess, who has been filling the role of Drama Queen with great accuracy and passion, puts it best:
“The boys (or dad or Ellie or Monday or, [ vehemently ] YOU) are picking at me!!!!!”
I’ve quit trying to correct her by telling her it is “on” rather than “at” because, her version is more apt I think.
It is what it feels like – the poking and picking and tearing is AT you. When they are fighting with one another or arguing with me, I can feel it physically as if their words and tears and volume are tiny beaks. Unpleasant.
In related news, Max is reading ‘Junie B. has a Peep in her Pocket’ for like the 23rd time, but this time aloud to Jac. The part when she learns roosters can peck heads into nubs? I have thought of that image often this week with every, “THEY’RE PICKING AT ME!!!!!” I have heard.
My mind? Pecked into a nub, people. Wish there was a hat to cover that.