I fled my children tonight. I admit it. I did all the mom things I was supposed to do. I helped with homework. I did laundry. I fixed dinner and fed them. I made one go shower. I read half a book so I could help boy with his homework. (Fun book–The Westing Game). Or rather, I was trying to do that, when things devolved with the kids. Girlie has discovered a new and deep love for My Little Pony. I was going to let her Netflix an episode. Boy was reading. No problem. Until–can’t we watch something I want to watch too? Fine, I’ll look. Nothing is on. I’m wasting time at this point that I need to be reading to help him. Also getting a bit infuriated because all of this conversation involves some whining. So I say finally, just let her watch this so I can read and we can talk about your homework. Fine. Until he made a little whiny sobby sighing sound. I was DONE. Turned off the TV, left the room. Went upstairs to read on my bed. Girlie followed crying. I told her to go away.
Yes, I fled. It was that or make somebody bleed or lay on the floor and throw my own tantrum. There must be some sort of saying that fleeing is the better part of maturity.