Shirtless Guys and Young Adult Fiction

The trinado is on the right (9yo, 5yo, and 7yo) in this photo of a completely unrelated shirtless-on-the-trampoline moment.

So it's the day before Thanksgiving and the kids are out of school. I dropped the girl off at a sleepover last night so it's just the boys and me. Oh, and for those of you who don't know about finding an address in the dark in the south, let me help you out here. It's pitch black except for my high beams and the occasional high beams of some idiot in the other lane who doesn't know to turn his/hers off when there's oncoming traffic. My daughter's giving me instructions from the passenger seat with the map on my iPhone and I can't see the street signs to verify she's got us on the right track. It's something like this;

"Go right on the next road. Not the little road extension thingie but the actual road road."
"What's it called?"
"Hang on."
"I can't hang on. Wait-- what was that? Did we just pass it?"
"It says 0.2 miles."
"That's impossible. We've been on the 70 for like a mile already."
"Okay, go back."
(There's no shoulder on the road, no gas stations, no houses, just farmland. Thank God we're in the Bible Belt and I found one of the zillion Baptist churches to use for a turnaround.)
"IT'S THIS ONE RIGHT HERE!"
(Screeching brakes)
"Now what?"
"Now you're going to keep driving for a while."
"What's a while?"
"Until you get to Fancher's Mill Road."
"How far is that?"
"Up a little."
"How little?"
"Like two inches."
"That doesn't help."
"Wait."
"STOP SAYING WAIT! Is this it? IS THIS IT?"
"Does the sign say Fancher's Mill Ro-"
"There is no sign!"
"Is it just a little road extension thingie or is it an actual road road?"
"I don't know. It's too dark. I'm turning anyway."
"Wait."
"I told you to stop saying-- what the hell is that?"
"What?"
"It's a little owl! There's a little owl in the road!"
"I didn't see it! Turn around!"
"I can't turn around."
(Pouting)
"Okay, now the road ends and her house is up about half an inch."
(This is when I either started crying or banging my head against the steering wheel. I can't remember which one I did at this point and which one I did when I got stuck at the gated dead end when the map said I was supposed to be back on the highway.)
"The road can't just end. Look at the map again."
"She must have a really long driveway."
"Like half an inch?"
"What?"
"Nothing."

By some Thanksgiving miracle, I made it to the highway. I was almost home and close to tears when I smelled something familiar. I realized it was a skunk about the same time I drove over a hairy black lump on the asphalt. The smell was everywhere; in my nose, in my mouth, in my eyes. I whipped off the freeway and opened the windows but I still felt like yakking. The smell followed me into the house and the kids freaked out. "Smells like something's burning." "No, it smells like something died." "It's mom! Mom, you stink!"

Let's get back to today, shall we? The the teenager with the mustache was up crazy late talking with two girls on Skype and slept until noon. The three younger boys-- the three-headed tornado, or "trinado" --were tearing around the house like rabid hyenas. Since it's sunny and almost seventy degrees outside (way to get in the holiday spirit, Mother Nature), I banished them to the backyard. There was much fighting. Fighting over the Green Machines. Fighting on the trampoline. Fighting about who did what and whether or not it was an accident. They drew faces on playground balls with Sharpies and carried them around in grocery bags, calling them Puffles and giving them imaginary personalities.

And then something hit the window.

Repeatedly.

The boys had gone around to the garage, entered the code to open the door, and helped themselves to Sprite and Cream Soda from the extra fridge. After pouring it all over the trampoline and soaking themselves, they stripped off their clothes and threw them onto a lower section of the roof. The sound I heard was the tapping of their cans hitting the window as the boys tried to launch them onto the roof and get them stuck in the rain gutter. Two of the three had already succeeded when I came outside breathing fire and thirsty for blood.

I dragged them inside and threw them in the bathtub. It was their brilliant idea to put on swimsuits and take one big bath in my jetted tub. I knew I should've said no but what I heard was "We want to condense three baths into one and cut down on the hot water usage" so I allowed it.

What happened next was mostly my fault. The oldest kid had stumbled out of bed and was catching up on this season of The Walking Dead. I took advantage of the quiet and sat down to watch it with him. The boys were whooping it up in the bathtub but I let it go. They got louder and I still let it go. Water greeted me at the bathroom door when I finally went to check on them. Half an economy-size bottle of Mr. Bubble in a jetted tub can produce enough foam to completely swallow up three little boys and half the bathroom floor. In case you were wondering.

This is why I write young adult fiction. I want to escape to a time of first kisses and best friends. When we beg for freedom but don't realize we already have it. No bills, no kids, no housework. I wouldn't change a thing about my life but it's a demanding one and it helps to escape just for a few moments of quiet time before I jump back into the fray.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a bathroom to clean and a Thanksgiving dinner to start. I'm sure the boys will have a new adventure waiting for me when I'm finished.