I don’t get those women who want to bear children after forty or, God forbid, fifty! Children are for the young. I’ve only had a small three-day dose, but I’m exhausted. Have you ever tried to tell a 1-year-old that the reason she cries is that she needs sleep? Or that dropping her toy over the side of the playpen out of reach isn’t a screaming offense? There’s no reasoning with her. And although the 5-year-old has some verbal skills, she still doesn’t get the concept of let’s sit so the dog doesn’t get overexcited and stops barking. Nope, she runs circles around the couch yelling at him to shut up. There’s a reason I had a house husband. I don’t have the maternal gene.

It also doesn’t help that there’s so much Irish running through their veins. Everything that happens, happens loudly.

Yesterday when the 1-year-old went down for a nap, I did manage to finish another chapter of the big book, but I didn’t make it back to any of the smaller projects. Maybe I’ll work up the nerve to put the shock collar around the neck of the barracuda with a tail (the dachsund) so he will stop barking and I can think. He’s old and grumpy and likes to check you with a bruising (not puncturing) bite. Or maybe I can just shoo him out the door and he can go play with the pit bull next door.