Unintended Poetry

Husband is washing some unidentified dirt off our son in the ocean. I don't even want to know what it is...

As our lives get fuller and busier, certain things automatically decrease. Like the criteria of 'cleanliness', 'what we can afford', or what qualifies as 'laundry-ready'.

Another casualty of Becoming Parents is a steady decline in quality conversations. I was once the person who would never shut up, given the right topic (now, my brother would argue that this is still true, but only after 9pm when the kids are in bed or preferably, at Grandma's house).

Lately I have noticed I speak in haiku.

Let's go, we're late now!
Please stop hitting your sister!
I'm the parent here!

What did the cat eat?
What is that disgusting mess?
I'm not cleaning that!

Behave in the store,
or I'll tell Dad about this.
He will not be pleased.

You're eating that now.
I worked on that for hours--
it tastes delicious!

You all be quiet!
I don't care who started it,
because I'll end it.

And then...

You made that for me?
All by yourself? That's so sweet!
Mama loves you, my monkeys.

It always amazes me that I can go from crotchety irritableness to weepy sentimentality in 0.4 seconds. Are my kids using some sort of crazy psychology to get their way or is it love? Most days, I think it might be both!