It’s spring. Which means the windows are open.
Which means the world can now hear my children yelling at each other.
And I’d like you all to know something.
Those aren’t my kids you hear yelling.
Those aren’t my kids screaming, “He spit at me!” while the spitter laughs manically.
Those aren’t my kids yelling, “I didn’t touch you!” Then beating feet out of the room.
Those aren’t my kids you hear slamming doors and yelling, “Fine! I will clean my room!”
Those aren’t my kids you hear screaming and runnig through the backyard, yelling, “She took my ball!” Followed by, “But it’s MY ball!”
Those aren’t my kids you hear slamming the screen door.
That’s not my husband you hear yelling, “Hey! I just replaced that screen!”
Those aren’t my kids that just yelled, “I hate you!”
That wasn’t me who just yelled down, “I can hear every.single.word.you.say.”
Those weren’t my kids who froze into statues when they heard my voice.