Yesterday, my husband and kids were harrassing me for being a psychopath emotional basketcase musician. Today, they have commenced physical torture.
"Mom," my eleven-year-old daughter said. "Listen to this!"
She started blowing through some sort of clay whistle thing. The sound that came out of it was a high-pitched, shrill, ear-splitting whistle.
I quickly covered my ears. "What is that?" I asked.
"A Hungarian bird whistle. Granny got it for me when she was in Hungary."
"It's horrid," I said. "Please stop, or you're going to break both of our eardrums!"
She didn't stop. She just kept blowing it.
Then my son came in. He had a bazooka air gun. And guess what he did? Yep. He aimed it right at me and shot a puff of air at my face. My baby fine hair blew back and got completely messed up. "Got you!"
"Yeah, you got me," I said. "Now cut it out, and let me do my work."
Of course he didn't cut it out. Both of my kids were set on annoying me as much as possible - one messing up my ears, and the other messing up my hair.
Then my husband joined the scene. He took that bazooka gun. "Here, Bubba, let me show you how it's done." He completely blasted me!
"That's it!" I shouted. "I'm done with all this harassment! I'm going on strike!"
They got quiet. "What?" they said.
"You heard me. I'm going on strike!"
"But Mama," my son said. "I'm hungry!"
"Too bad, kid. You're on your own! "
So what do you think? Will they survive, or will they come crawling back to me on their knees, begging for forgiveness?