RIP Bonnie Franklin

I’m just trying to make it “One Day At A Time” like divorced TV mom Annie Romano, except that I have two Barbaras and two Julies, and a boy.

Damn kids.

Let me set the scene. As per usual I was unsuccessful in getting certain tasks completed before the kids came back from a visit with their dad. As per usual none of the kids gave the requested heads up text to let me know they were on their way before they came. (I didn’t know what time they were coming home, only that they’d be home earlier than the required drop off time because one of the kids had a rehearsal.)

So the kids walked in to me in the middle of various projects — hanging a shelf, bagging their clothes they refused to wash, my private journal open on the kitchen table and Sex and The City blaring on all three TVs. (It’s one of my secret single behaviors to turn on all the TVs while cleaning so as I’m walking around the house I can still hear and glance at whatever is on. Don’t judge.) I was startled and felt like I got caught doing something wrong.

Turns out, I apparently had done something wrong.

My cleaning and organizing efforts were rewarded with a fit of rage from the Anxious child. Her twin, the Angry child was — guess what? Angry. As per usual, she did not enjoy her visit with her dad and brought her frustration home to me. The other kids just breezed in, dropped their stuff where they felt like it and perched various places in the house to eat the fast food their dad sent them home with. Someone got the Angry child’s order wrong and she was angry about that, too, no surprise. Somehow this anger was directed toward me.

It is always stressful when the kids get home. They’d only been gone for twenty-eight hours but the whole visitation process: getting them ready and out of the door when they’d rather not go, their behavior when they return, my guilt over how I choose spend my time when they are gone (not getting enough done, not having any fun) is always difficult. See Weekends Off.

After the tirade from the Anxious and Angry twins and my frustrated response, I still had to drive the oldest to rehearsal and get some dinner for myself.

During the drive I tried some relaxation techniques I’ve been reading about. I took deep breaths. I sat in my car for a bit to calm down. And, in an uncharacteristic move, when I returned I decided to sit down and watch something funny. Normally I would hide from my ill-tempered children or launch into a series of chores and attempt to get them to do the same. But instead I loaded the DVD player with my new favorite guilty pleasure, Pitch Perfect. Don’t judge. Okay, go ahead and judge. And yes, we own it.

The girls joined me. When he returned from his rehearsal, the Arrogant one — the boy, retired to his boudoir as per usual. To his credit, he was doing a massive amount of homework that he saved for when he got back from the visit. His choice, his stress.

What people say about humor and music is true. Watching Pitch Perfect made me feel better. Miraculously, both the Anxious child and her twin, the Angry child, calmed down.

But when I got up to go into the kitchen to get a drink, however, I was met with a surprise.

Someone had opened every single cabinet and drawer in the kitchen.

It’s not just a matter of neatness, leaving cabinets open has scared the bejesus out of me way back to The Sixth Sense!

Do you remember the abused ghost wife and the open cabinets in The Sixth Sense?

I stopped dead in my tracks. I was already emotionally fragile.

I WAS TRYING TO CALM DOWN!!!!!

But those people I made, those people I grew in my belly like mold, those people know that having all the cabinets and drawers open frightens me!

It probably goes back to Poltergeist as well.

In Poltergeist someone or something cleared the table and pulled out the chairs.

Then someone or something stacked the chairs.

I just don’t do well with kitchen surprises. I’m okay with bugs, I’ve dealt with some nasty stuff, see Piss, Puke and Porn, but open cabinets — scare me.

I froze in my steps, mouth agape. When I could finally move I gingerly walked the five steps back into the family room and cried to my four female spawn,

“WHO DID THAT? You know that scares me!”

Then I collapsed on the floor and laughed so hard I cried. I didn’t go back in my kitchen until I got a confession out of the Quirky one and ordered her to go in there and close everything up.

Oh, those people I made all had a good laugh about it. Great big belly laughs. I was a hysterical mess on the floor, but unlike some of my past days, it was in a good way.

Damn kids.

I guess the experts are right that laughter helps with depression and anxiety.

But does it have to be at my expense? Does it?

I just looked at my girl, the Quirky one — the Offender, and said,

“You used to be one of the ones that I liked.”

Just Me With . . . a weird phobia, an unexpectedly devious Quirky child and a good laugh — on the floor.

Given my mood, it was a bold move on the Quirky One’s part. I have to respect her risk-taking.

The mother throws holy water on her offending child in Hairspray.

Shout out to Merbear who inspired me to write something positive about my girls. Well, I don’t know if it was positive, damn kids.

Other Kitchen Surprises:

A Rat In My House and Toilet or Kitchen Sink — Who Can Tell?