The Book of Mom

After a long summer cooped up in the house, my seven children have become immune to the sound of my voice. Like the Children of Israel in the Bible, they are beginning to rebel against my commands, being lifted up in all manner of exceeding rudeness. As you can imagine, this has driven me over the edge of insanity a few times. (Who am I kidding? I have lived teetering on the edge of insanity every day since February 2, 1997 when my twins were born!) Every child in this house takes a turn in the let’s-make-mom-crazy game, but Gideon (almost 2) is usually the biggest culprit. He tears through the house like a tornado, leaving half-eaten granola bars and leaky sippy cups in his wake. Last week, while trying to pack for a weekend trip, Gid was in fine form, running through the house like a madman, undoing piles of folded laundry, getting into forbidden cupboards, beating up his big brothers with an oversized, red toy shovel and committing all manner of toddler crimes. Well, I finally cracked. And while suffering in this chaos-induced state of craziness, I laid down the law. I wrote up a Momifesto if you will, or more fittingly, some scriptures from the “Book of Mom”. As I wrote, I felt a frenzied inspiration fill my mind with more and more commands for all of my children. It was exhilarating and liberating! I feverishly wrote down my reasonable expectations for the Children of Byers. All I ask is that they study these words of wisdom and apply them to their lives (if they want their mother to remain the lovely, sweet-tempered woman they know and love.) Maybe someday when the “Littles” can read, they too, might actually comply.

Cease to whine!

Cease calling “Mo-om!” more times than is needful (which is more than one.)

Cease to pour the new gallon of bubble solution out on the ground and then come sobbing to me that the bubbles are all gone.

Cease to pull off your poopy diaper and leave it on the front porch.

Cease to spread my box of 300 Q-tips all over the bathroom.

Cease to throw toilet paper rolls into the guest toilet.

Cease to throw every new toy I buy into the window well within minutes of taking it outside.

Cease to huck croquet balls at your brother’s head.

Cease to scale the cupboards in search of the sunscreen so you can meticulously squirt it all over each brick paver on the back patio.

Cease to crush pink packing peanuts into smithereens on my living room floor.

Cease to consume a sleeve of crackers while hiding under my sheets.

Cease to take a bite out of every apple in the fruit bowl.

Cease to climb on the table.

Cease to pour the entire contents of the saltshaker on the table after climbing on said table.

Cease to immerse the cable remote control in a large glass of lemonade.

Cease to strip off your diaper and clothing, flinging them over the bars of the crib, before you nap naked.

Cease to scold me for singing along with the radio.

Cease to run around the house naked after stripping to go potty, submitting to a wiping only when I chase you down and end up wiping you as you assume the downward facing dog position in the middle of the kitchen.

Cease to correct me when I call you your brother’s name (you know who I mean ZacCodJonEliGid – Curtis!)

Cease to put pretzels in your pockets, which then end up in my washing machine causing a catastrophic laundry backup (because heaven knows I can’t handle any more issues with the laundry).

Cease to ask, “Is there tofu in this?”

Cease to sit on the pot longer than is needful (because I know you’re in there and the pans will still need washing when you’re done.)

Cease to teach your three year-old brother songs with the words “stinky” and “poo” in them.

Cease to carry on all conversations with each other by quoting movies I have never seen.

Cease to call me while I’m at a movie with your father to ask me if you can have a cookie.

Cease to text me from your bedroom.

And did I mention…Cease to whine!

Thus sayeth the Mom, “So let it be written, so let it be done!”