I walked out on a family dinner tonight. I used the "have to potty" excuse and walked right out. It wasn't a special dinner, just the five of us having some pretty darn good smothered chicken and veggies, but something happened that made me step away from my children and husband for a minute.

Have you ever been in the middle of a day-to-day routine and suddenly seen it from a different perspective? I was in mid-chew of a delectable bite of home cooked goodness, trying in vain to ignore the conversation around me, when I had an out of body experience and saw my normal family dinner as something far less than normal.

Things started off a little wrong when I called my family to dinner. We're one of those families that sit down to eat every night (although after tonight's revalation, that may change). We pull up our chairs all "Leave it to Beaver" style and have conversations and everything. I should say we attempt conversation, because anyone who has been in the room with a preschooler for more than 30 seconds knows it's hard to get a word in, but that's a whole different story.

When I called the kids to come eat, Molly was nowhere to be found. I had to look for her for at least ten minutes before I heard her giggle. She's recently made herself a nest inside a giant rubbermaid container that was once (as in three days ago) a toybox. Don't even ask me where all the toys are, because I might be compelled to show you a picture of their bedroom, and that would not be pretty. So she was curled up like a kitten inside her plastic prison, covered in a blanket so I missed her the first few times I walked by. She knew I wasn't amused. I mean, come on - my cheese was sure to be ungooeyfied by now.

We finally got everyone to the table, and the chaos began.

"Eww, is that a green pepper?"
"Mommy, I pooped."
"I don't like green beans."
"Molly, your corn is not a phone. Hang it up and eat."
"I have to talk to Mimi."
"Tell Mimi you're about to get spanked."
"Mimi, I have to go eat now."
"Eat your meat - a chicken died to feed you tonight. "
"What's that smell?"
"Mommy, I pooped."
"Stop kicking me. Mom, she's kicking me."
"Don't stand in the highchair, because if you fall out and crack your head on the table leg it's going to bleed, and I'm not cleaning up blood tonight."
"What time's your carwash Saturday? I want to come help."
"You're not going to do the milkshake song are... stop kicking me."
"I poopied."
"Molly, don't you throw your fork on the floor again or you're going to be in trouble."
"Myyyyy milkshake brings all the boys to the yard..."
"Mommy, I'm not throwing my fork. The wind is taking it over to the floor."
"Something stinks in here. Is it this chicken?"
"Mommy, I have poop on my hand."
"Molly, if a tornado takes the roof off this house, picks your fork up and throws it across the room onto the floor, you're still going to be in trouble for throwing it down, and I'm not kidding."

That last statement was met with complete silence from every member of my family. I could see that my husband was trying not to laugh. I shot him a stink eye and mentally dared him to laugh. My kids all sat staring at me as if they were waiting for a straightjacket to suddenly materialize on my body.

"WHAT? What are you all staring at?"

Not. A. Word.

I calmly stood, said, "I'm going to the bathroom," and walked out of the room. I stood in front of the mirror plucking stray eyebrow hairs, thinking about what had just happened. Yes, I said plucking. What else was I supposed to do? I didn't actually have to go, and it was the longest I've been in a bathroom without company in two years. So anyway, as I was plucking, my thoughts naturally led to the President. I stood there *pluck* thinking, "If Dubya were here for dinner," *pluck* "what would he think of my family?" *pluck* Ow.

I leaned against the counter, ignoring the blob of toothpaste crawling towards my hip, and thought on it for a minute. I felt satisfied with my conclusion. I'm sure if the President met my family, he'd write me an advance presidential pardon for any criminal acts I should commit, ever.

Satisfied with my eyebrows, I moved on to removing my toenail polish. I balanced on the edge of the tub, anchored by the blob of toothpaste that had made its way to my butt, and started swiping my nails with a blob of acetone soaked toilet paper. My thoughts broadened a bit. "What if Dr. Phil were having dinner with us?" He'd like my chicken. Yeah, he would. It was good stuff. He'd probably have seconds before he looked at me and whipped out a "What are you, stupid?" He'd definitely fly us out to be on his show. That would be great, except I can't get through a 30 minute meal anymore without having a nervous breakdown, so how in the hell could I handle a plane ride with my family? Oh yeah - I'll hide out in the bathroom. I wonder if they would confiscate my tweezers.

I eventually made my way back to the table. They were all done eating, sitting silently in their chairs. I sat down, picked up my fork, and finished my chicken. I looked around the table and said, "What? Why are you all so quiet?"

My bad. That one simple comment opened the floodgates, and I forgot to blow up my raft.

"Are you okay, mom?"
"You went potty long time, mama."
"Honey, do you have diarrhea or something? You were in there forever!"
"Mom must have really had to poop."
"Mom, why are your eyelids red? Were you crying?"
"Mommy, you pooped?"
"Are you sure you're feeling alright?"
"What's that smell?"
"It's Abby. She pooped."
"Not that. It smells like acid or something."
"Maybe it's your breath."
"She kicked me the whole time you were pooping, Mom."
"What's for dessert?"
"I's still poopy."
"That tornado took my fork, Mom."
"Are you sure you're alright? Do you need some Immodium?"
"Is someone knocking on the door?"

Please, God, let it be Dr. Phil. Maybe he'll commit me.

My screws are loose, and it's all my husband's fault.

My husband is one of those people that was blessed with an inclination for mechanical things. He can pop the hood of a car, poke around for a minute, and tell you what's been making that chunka-chunka-grind noise every time you swerve to avoid a squirrel. He's good like that.

It seems that Molly was also born with this natural desire to know how things work. Since she was very small, she's had a tendency to take things apart. She learned to pull herself up from the floor by gripping the front of daddy's toolbox. She's one of those kids that you can't leave alone in a room, not even for a moment. She'll disassemble the vacuum cleaner in the time it takes you to race to the bathroom and pee.

We keep a baby gate at the top of our staircase because of a few incidents that I like to refer to as "roly-poly baby tumblings." A few nights ago, Molly found a screwdriver in the kitchen and took the gate apart. I flipped out - that gate is crucial for preventing ER visits! In the midst of my panic, her father celebrated. His little baby girl had advanced to a whole new level of destruction.

The next day he made her a toolbox of her very own, complete with a message of love to his new little mechanic buddy scrawled in Sharpie across the top. That was two very long days ago. In the time since she was gifted with her tools of destruction, she has taken apart the same baby gate again, removed some very important screws from a glider rocking chair, unhinged two cabinet doors and taken off an outlet cover. I also have a small pile of screws of unknown origin.

There is an important lesson to be learned here: Never give a three year old a screwdriver. More importantly, never allow your husband to give your children unapproved gifts. EVER. Oh, and don't slip with the screwdriver when you're replacing an outlet cover.

Commitment Issues (PLEASE commit me!)

My name is Robin, and I am certifiably insane.

There was a time in my life when I had big plans for my future. I was going to do something fantastic that would change the world. Somewhere along the way, I acquired four children - three that I gave birth to, and one that I married. Now my plans for my life rarely involve anything greater than making it through the day without finding myself in jail or a sanitarium. Either would be like a mini vacation for me.

To an outsider, my family might seem quite normal. There's me, a loving, thirtysomething stay at home mom with three gorgeous kids and a handsome husband. There's my husband, a hardworking man with the patience of a saint and a few hobbies that include cars and pinball machines. Let's not forget the kids: Bryan, a 13 year old who is not only polite and well behaved, but also very smart and funny; Molly, a precocious 3 year old with a lot of energy and a contagious laugh; and Abigail, a cuddly 1 year old with a smile who can light up a room.

Here's the reality.

I am a frazzled, overworked, and sometimes mental wreck who can't keep the house clean (and couldn't care less). About every other day I curse the day I made a decision to stay home, and on the other days I alternate between laughing and crying. I'm an emotional basket case. Motherhood is enough to convert any relatively normal woman into a lunatic.

My husband, while appearing to be a very patient man, is actually so laid back that he just doesn't care about anything. The girls can be painting museum quality artwork on the walls with their own bodily fluids (or solids) and it just doesn't phase him a bit. His hobbies are collecting broken things, and storing them everywhere he can find a spot. Cars on blocks? Had 'em. Pieces of boats? Yep, had them too. It's endless. His favorite phrases are "I don't know," and "You can't be mad at that." I sure do love him.

Bryan is actually a well behaved teenager - at least in public. For the last 9 years, every time I attended an open house at school or met with a teacher (or baseball coach or neighbor, etc.) I hear adults singing the praises of my young son. I've tried to give him away to these strangers who know a side of my son that I don't. I've tried many times. I always get a polite laugh and a slight look of confusion in return. These people do not know the temperamental, moody boy that I live with. I sure do love him.

Molly is indeed a charming young lady. She has the type of energy that I could only achieve with the help of a five gallon bucket of espresso and massive quantities of speed. Her favorite game is "running in circles." It involves running in circles. At high speed. Endlessly. She tends to be an overachiever - anything you think a child could not actually do, well, Molly will. Climb up onto the refrigerator? Yep. Fill her baby sisters crib with every toy, piece of clothing, and small piece of furniture in the bedroom (while Abigail is laying trapped underneath it all)? Yep. The list goes on and on. I sure do love her.

Abigail is actually the most manageable of my three children. I attribute that to the fact that she is only one year old. She just hasn't had enough time to develop her own special brand of torture for me. I thought she was on to something for a while when she decided to play Picasso with the contents of her diaper at nap time (over and over and over). When I finally got to a point where the vein in my forehead stopped bulging out every time I went in her room to find a brown Mona Lisa on the wall, she decided to switch it up a little and just eat the poo. I am really hoping that the fecal episodes will stop when she's potty trained. Hopefully at least by the time she starts school. I sure do love her.

My life is a daily adventure. Wish me luck on the "72 hour involuntary commitment" thing. I sure could use a break.