I am writing this--perhaps my last living blog--from the bathroom. The spawn have broken the lock on the door. I have wedged a croc in the door to ensure my safety.
There are twelve more hours until the spawn are loaded onto the school bus for the first time this year. I do not know if I will survive.
At the beginning of the summer, they were charming. Adorable, even. They smiled at the sunny days and went outside without provocation.
Then, once the romance of a golden summer turned the lawn a dingy, dry tan, they withered with it. They shrank into the tv room, scarcely leaving except to satiate the whining hunger in their guts every seven minutes. They turned pale, only giggling when the laugh track on their insipid television show bade them to. They drooled. "Snacks" their throats gurgled as try stumbled from the room, lifeless limbs dragging behind them.
By August, they were trying to pick each other off in elaborate ways. My daughter fashioned a bear trap with combs and scrunchies. My son tried to poison his sister with tomatoes in her cereal.
Last week, they realized that it was funner to join forces and exterminate the matriarch.
They played with Legos in my room. On my floor. They took turns giving each other mani/pedis. On my same floor. They made dinner and watched me eat every. Bite. Of. My. Cereal.
They drew out plans for six business ventures, four full-length musicals, and an acre-wide garden. With chickens.
My children are trying to kill me.
There is an electrode kit on top of a rock-tumbling kit on top of an accordion on my kitchen table. There is also a coat hanger sculpture that resembles a tree monster or an elephant or a pegacorn or the starship Enterprise on my love seat.
The cleanest room is the bathroom.
This is where I am and where I will stay until they are on the bus. Or need to brush their teeth. Whichever comes first.
The bus will be here in eleven hours and 51 minutes.
Pray for me.