I have a plan. Well, it's more of a fantasy, really. But it helps me get through the frustration of raising three children who don't seem to understand any key concepts of socialization. When everything seems to be out of control, and I am reduced to a raving lunatic that everyone ignores, my mind races forward to a warm night in August 2033. I imagine our twins, then ages 28, and Sarah, age 25, throwing a 35th wedding anniversary dinner for me and Dan. They will have planned out the evening, and the menu. They will have put a lot of effort into making the evening special. The girls, now young women, will be waiting at the front door as Dan and I drive up. They won't know what hit them!
Dan and I will leap out of our car and promptly run through their garden. We will spot the prettiest flower, pick it, and then throw it on the ground. Then we'll do it again. And again. And again. Until there are no flowers left. Then, we will ring the doorbell 500 times, knowing full well that the house is empty and ringing the doorbell for no reason is irritating.
Next, we will go into the house and fling our shoes and our jackets across the room. There they will remain until someone else picks them up. Dan and I will separate. He will empty the kitchen cupboards, and I will head for the more breakable "treasures". Within minutes, the house will be destroyed and the level of anxiety will be through the roof. The children will usher us to the table thinking that a lovingly prepared dinner will make everyone happy. They will be wrong. Regardless of whatever magnificent feast is laid before me, I shall screech, "I didn't want THAT! It's DISGUSTING!". With that, I will fired my plate across the table. I will leap up from my seat, and race around the island screaming. For effect, Dan will follow.
The children will offer to make us something else. We will demand peanut butter sandwiches. Once the sandwiches are produced, we will walk calmly around the table eating the sandwiches and picking food off of other people's plates. Periodically, we will throw food on the floor, or hide bits of our sandwiches throughout the house. We will knock our juice onto the floor, not tell anyone, and then walk through it. We will wipe our hands under the kitchen table. At some point, we will use the washroom and forget to flush the toilet.
We won't leave until the children are exhausted, and livid. They will walk us to our car, just to ensure that we are actually leaving. Dan and I will sit in the car and order the children to "DANCE!" while we pull away. Seriously! They must dance! When we get home, we will call to thank the girls for a lovely evening, and tell them we will be back over the next night for an encore performance!
This fantasy, my friends, is all that keeps me going!