The First Rule of Fight Club...

My children are at war. 

With me. With each other. With crayons, chairs, pillows that don't puff properly and cereal bars with tendency to break. With dollhouse furniture, sheets that slide off of mattresses, tiny, plastic doll clothes and door jambs.  With themselves, bedtime routines, the color of their book bags and socks that don't sit properly on toes. With who climbs up the slide and who drew the best "whale on vacation". With who is eating the cotton candy versus the dulce de leche dum-dum. With who is sitting in who's booster and who gets to ride in the grocery cart with the steering wheel with NO horn. With what's for dinner and who got to the table first. With my decision to turn off TV and vehemently point at the play-structure. With the play-structure they pleaded for and now sometimes leave sitting, unused, for days. With whether or not their sandwich has more honey or less banana or whether I stirred the peanut butter enough. With getting out of the shower or insisting they do not need one. With hair clips and towels that are the wrong color and why can't we just go to ONE MORE PLACE after we've been overextended for hours. With life for being unfair and with summer sandals for being left in wet grass. With rain and dry and too much sun and having the foam sword with the handle that has the most bite marks. With the cats for being underfoot or for running away when they're wanted. With me for writing. "YOU DON'T NEED TO WRITE!" "WHY ARE YOU WRITING?". With writing because I love writing and, "I only need to love them." With days for being too short and nights for being too hot. With not having extra quarters to ride the elephant and so-and-so has gum and their mom says it's fine. With the baby for being squirmy or for eating their soggy Cheerios. With stickers that do not stay stuck and Happy Meal watches that do not tell time. With ice that melts too fast and yogurt that evades their spoons. With lip gloss and nail polish that is out of reach and healthy snacks within their reach that they do not want. With me. With each other. With themselves. With summer's end and weariness and my overused and under-cheerful, "Tomorrow will be better!"

*Deep Breath*

Tomorrow will be better.