"I can not drive with all of this screaming. You HAVE to settle down right now, damn it." Both of my kids' eyes widened and they looked at each other with the all knowing, "She's in one of those moods" looks. But my son's friend, the one I was mainly yelling at, didn't bat an eye. He resumed his thrashing and screaming, I yelled again, he yelled louder, so I turned up the stereo and sped home. Once there, I told the kids to play outside, threw them some snacks, and locked the door.
Occasionally, I would hear a scream or yelp and drag my sorry butt to the window.
"Put that shovel down, someone..."
"Are you bleeding?"
And the window would close. My resourceful three year old daughter came inside, using the unlocked front door, and found me sprawled out on the couch.
"Those boys are crazy," she stated.
"I know. Did you get hurt?"
"No, I just watched them. What are you drinking?"
"Juice," I lied.
"Can I have some?"
"It's special mommy juice."
"Why are you drinking it in a coffee mug?"
"I have no idea. Let's go upstairs and spy on the boys. They won't be able to see us from the top window."
And that's where we remained until we saw the friend's mother pull up, which caused me to stash my "juice cup" in a potted plant and pretend I was a normal, if at least somewhat attentive, mother.