On the way home from work last night, I was elevated by the beauty of spectacular clouds, a radiant sunset, and fresh April snow along the fronts of the mountains.
I arrived here wanting to have a burst of high-energy fun with the kids. I thought that a quick bike ride would be just the thing. My wife wisely said we shouldn't because it would end the kids up in bed way too late on a school night. I insisted that it wouldn't. She shook her head in ominious resignation. I called for the two eldest kids (henceforth, I'll refer to the kids by number, so #1 and #2 in this case) and we headed out the door.
As we pulled the bikes out, my daughter suggested that we play basketball instead, which we could start immediately rather than biking to our destination before the "official fun" would begin. #2 wanted to bike. I made a deal with them that if they promised to brush their teeth and get their PJs on with lightning speed, we'd do both.
Long story short, the night ended with me (angry at them, yes, but angrier at myself for naively disregarding my wife's hard-earned maternal wisdom) yelling at both of them after they took 40 minutes from the time we go to get into bed, and my daughter crying herself to sleep.
I fell asleep not caring that I'd yelled at my kids, tired of all of them, and wondering which would have the maximum collective utility, our divorce or my suicide. I contemplated no third option.
This morning as I was finishing up in the bathroom, #3 ambush-hugged my leg and smiled up at me with his big eyes. Tonight, #1 practiced with me a Spanish poem that she's reciting tomorrow at a language competition.
Tonight, at least, I'll fall asleep not ready to leave these precious kids, legally or lethally.
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