I yelled at them this weekend all right.
I yelled and pointed and sighed with exasperation.
I said unkind things.

“YOU ALWAYS DO THIS.”
“I’M SO SICK OF…”
“DOESN’T ANYONE SEE HOW HARD I WORK? WHY CAN’T YOU APPRECIATE THAT?”

(Martyr alert.)

Because I was lazy getting them to bed,
the girls stayed up too late on Friday. 
So did I.

As you know, grown ups and toddlers really aren’t much different when it comes to sleep deprivation.

So I spent the rest of the weekend keeping these wild, sleep-deprived kids apart with the broom.
As they tried to kill each other.
Just kidding about the broom.
Mostly.

Hot eyed,
screamy
little girl murder.

That’s right, murder.
Your children don’t try to kill each other?
Mine do.

I tried to kill my sister.
Pretty regularly.
So maybe it’s our family legacy.

A family legacy of failed murder.
That’s success, right?

Then I remember we’re just animals.
Sweaty,
eating,
mating,
pooping animals who need enough sleep.

I really need enough sleep.
(You too.)

Murder doesn’t really play into those animal drives.
Just like the platypus, just like the virus.
(Viruses have one up on us, they don’t need as much sleep.)

My instincts up there,
pulling the levers behind my eyes,
help me breed these people into adults and
keep them from killing each other on purpose.

They get fuzzy when I’m too tired.

What’s my point?
If I haven’t murdered anyone in my family on purpose today,
if I don’t let my kids do it either.
At least for right now, I’m doing okay.

I’ll raise the bar after I’ve taken a nap.