I should probably be getting my sorry behind to bed right now but I guess I'm still feeling too restless.

On Friday I went out with my mother and some relatives that are visiting her, which didn't start out as well as I had hoped it might. The babies lost their minds when we got to the restaurant and didn't want to stay in their seats, so I suppose it was good that there weren't more people in the restaurant or we might have been asked to leave.

Because when I say 'they lost their minds', what I really mean is they lost their minds.

With my children there is no simple choice in volume levels, no quiet vs. noisy. Much like the difference in freshness between the different layers of clothes in a bachelor's laundry hamper, there are many subtle levels. That first little sound, the one that says, attend me please, before I get hostile - that's what I call 'the whimper of the wounded'. The other end of the spectrum, the devastating wall of sound that threatens to steal your sanity is aptly named 'the scream of the scalded'. That's what my little angels (*snort*snark*chuckle*), whipped out as we tried to get through our sodas and fried noodles at the lovely chinese restaurant that will no doubt be locking the doors if they should ever see us so much as look in their general direction again. My mom was trying desperately to control the Trentmeister who had stood up in his highchair and was getting ready to toss a bowl full of fried noodles on the floor, while I walked around with Miss Zo-etta who was screeching like she was being jabbed viciously in the ass with a hatpin and had become inconsolable. While in the middle of enjoying all of this merriment, I had a sugar crash. I mean bottomed out, baby. I felt it coming on but didn't tend to it immediately because of what was going on with the kids and by the time I was finally able to sit and sip on a soda to bring my glucose levels up a bit, my hands were trembling so hard I couldn't get the cover off of the straw the waitress brought Zoe for her drink. My grandmother took pity on me and unwrapped it because I could barely hold it. We ordered a chesseburger and fries for Trent and some fries for Zoe, who quieted down when the food came and gave us all a break. I was sure we were going to be asked to leave but the owner of the restaurant and the waitress (an exceptionally good, very friendly waitress, by the way - one who was actually worth tipping), were very understanding. Early on I suggested we leave because of the noise my babies were making but none of my relatives wanted me to do that and my aunt did pitch in to help so we stayed.

My aunt assures me that when they come back in a couple of weeks she and my mom want to go out with me again.

Ha-ha. Apparently some folks never learn.

And that was just the beginning of the weekend.

Larry pulled a muscle in his back, Zoe had a huge allergy attack, and grandparent's day was a complete disaster. Zoe got a figurative bur in her saddle about ten or fifteen minutes into the visit and proceeded to cry for the next four hours. She fell asleep but woke up immediately when I put her down on my parents' bed and unleashed the scream of the scalded, hitting my brother (who was standing close by and totally unprepared), in the chest with the sonic boom. She wouldn't go to anyone else, either. We were passing her around like a basketball because everyone was trying to give me a break so I could eat in peace but she wanted mommy and that was it. Period. I had to stand in place and sway. If I took a step in any direction she assumed she was about to be put down and sent out the warning whimper.

People don't seem to understand how having a child wail at you like that for long periods of time affects you. When we got home she was fine. Apparently that's what she wanted. But for the four hours before that...

I think I'd like to go curl up in a corner and cry now.

My appointment with the doctor is tomorrow. More Zoloft - yay! Maybe she can give me something to help with this almost terminal case of PMS I'm experiencing too.

One can hope.