Ah Monday. The day that I wake up and discover that there is no coffee in the house. Also, the day I am informed that not one, not two but all three of my soccer playing children have games at 10:30am Saturday morning. At three different locations. On opposite sides of town. Of course.

Monday is also the day after Sunday, typically. So it is the day after the father figure stood outside church with a child screaming “NO CHURCH!!!! PLAYTIME!!!!” “NO QUIET!!!! PLAY!!!!” I give the boy props for being honest. He knows what he wants and he most definitely demands it.

He tried that approach with me today. He wanted to watch TV. I am not interested in using the TV as a babysitter any more than I already do, so I sad ‘No”. Clearly I misunderstood his demands, so he screamed them. As he is approaching three years of age, I have begun to stop my previous method of dealing with his tantrums, walking away. I know put him in his time out spot and start the timer. In theory, he is supposed to not scream while sitting there, in theory. At this point, I still have to keep him sitting, and he doesn’t do well with time frames. The minute he quieted down, his chubby arms shot out expecting me to pick him up. So it was a struggle for both of us, as we both really wanted to hug before the two minute timer was up.

Two minutes comes quickly so we did hug it out and I had to chase down his sister. She had taken to dancing on the table, celebrating the fact that her mother was distracted. Determined to not have any child of mine comfortable with dancing on tables, the baby and I found ourselves locked in a battle of wills as to what furniture and kitchen fixtures were permissible to be climbed on. `She decided that if she hid under the table, she would leave with her dignity intact. And also, eat the Cheerios she had thrown under it during breakfast. Judge me, I was wrestling with a toddler.

With Cinco slightly contained, I went in search of X-Man. This is how my day goes, find the baby, find the toddler, lose the baby, lose the toddler. Stop the baby, save the home.

There he was, in my bedroom, on my bed. The bed I was trying to make when he came demanding TV.  He was most definitely trying to make my bed. The blankets were shoved around and he was stacking the pillows, one on top of the other as I found him. He turned to me beaming, “All done mama, watch TV?”

He accepted playing Thomas the Tank Eng

ine instead. And lots and lots of hugs.