double standards

I have this thing - for starting posts with "I have this thing." But I do, and it's sort of interesting in an I've been up since 5am so let me think I'm still interesting at 10:04pm kind of way.

There are serious double standards with men and women. Many are beneficial to men, a few fall in woman's favor.

It irritates the heck out of me when Steven drinks from my cup. Not because I think he's germy (even if he is) or dirty (I hope not) or because I don't like him (because I do). I think it's because I'm home with the kids all day, and nothing that is mine has sovereignty from them. I pour a drink - someone's little lips are on it. Or they see me have it and want one of their own. Or I leave it on the coffee table and someone whose name rhymes with Gitchie is likely to come along and spill it down the side of the couch and onto the light grey carpet. Especially if I've had a bad morning and picked up a cappuccino on the way home from all my early morning running around to brighten up my day.

If I have a snack they want one. To be fair, even if I'm not hungry and not feeling snacky, and I hear someone else open a bag of something, I want to know what it is, and I want some. Even if it's not that good. Man I love snacks. There are days I want to graze all day like a Wildebeest and it has to be done on the sly, because they can hear every wrapper crinkle, every piece of fruit washed, each squeak of the quietly opened fridge door. They can smell stuff. They'll help themselves to stuff if they think they can get away with it.

I don't necessarily want the kids to fill their bodies with the junk food that I put in mine. It's bad. But I know that I'll still eat a plate (or two) of dinner. 5 granola bars in the afternoon will not ruin my supper or result in me not being hungry enough for my broccoli. It's okay when I snack all day.

I also don't feel like doling out snacks to everyone each time I sneak a couple of chips out of the bag.

Anyway, as I was saying, all day I have to protect my drinks from little hands, and little lips, and big spills. I sneak snacks. I just sit down to indulge and someone yells from the depths of the house Will Someone Wipe My Bum!!

• Two things about that: I don't know who their options for "someone" are, being that I'm the only one home. Secondly, this never sounds like a question, but more of a demand. This is actually just Tennyson - Jordan will say Will You Please Wipe My bum? and she does it nicer. And she doesn't start screaming it a hundred times if I have to take a second to finish what I'm doing before galloping down the hall to rush to her aid. Also, this last week I've told them both without question that they can now take care of their own toilet habits. They were very sad, but have since stopped calling me.

Anyway. Guess what happens when I rush off to wipe a bum? Someone else sneaks whatever I was sneaking. Can you believe the nerve? Me neither.

Let's talk about supper for a minute, shall we?

This is all a little tongue in cheek, don't think I don't find amusement and joy with my minions.

• The other day, Tennyson tried to tell me that he was now Daddy's minion. He loves his daddy, and is seriously fascinated by what he's doing, and can't wait to get all up in his personal space when Steven comes home, but he's still a big softie for Mommy. I told him "Tennyson, you may think you're Daddy's minion, but you're not." He giggled and disagreed. My heart warmed at the thought that he's still Mommy's little guy, even if he won't always admit it. He takes serious joy in teasing me. Have I ever mentioned that the minute we get to the table, and he gets sauce and stuff all over himself that he needs to hug me? Drives me nuts. You should see the right shoulder of my shirts by the ends of meal time. Even if I try to gently push him back onto his own chair. The other night he cried about something during supper time. We were having pasta and sauce. It wasn't pretty. There was not getting another day out of that top. But I digress.

Right - supper. I prepare plates, I cut up food, I stir and blow and blow and stir Tennyson's, because even if all the other kids are half done their dinner, Tennyson still sits there and whines and cries because his is too hot. He puts a bite in his mouth and then leaps as though someone slapped him in the kisser and then starts crying again. "It's too hot!!" drives me nuts. Eventually, it's cooled enough for him to eat it. I make my plate, I sit down, Mitchie dumps his milk. It runs in rivers across the table, or into his lap, or onto his plate. I sigh audibly and get up and go get a towel. I mop it up. Elliot begins screeching. We give her some cheerios. She puts a few in her face and in doing so she manages to knock most of them on the floor. Although, I must admit that she is getting better and better at eating a slightly larger fraction of those cheerios. The minute her tray is clear she starts howling again. We take turns shoveling more cheerios onto her tray. One of us will feed her. She screeches some more. More cheerios. Jordan decides that she needs more supper. I take her plate back to the counter and fill it again. We try and persuade Mitchell to actually eat some of his dinner. We tell Jordan to get back in her chair. The phone rings. We usually ignore it (this drives Steven nuts. It drives me more nuts to have someone answer the phone at meal time).

My whole point? I eat a lot of cold dinners.

Then guess what happens. Betcha can't.

Eventually, all the kids are washed, brushed, storied, sung to, hugged, kissed, loved, beautiful and sleeping. All is quiet. Evidence of their play is scattered about the house, making it a home.

I open the kitchen door, nobody comes running. There aren't 2 or 3 little heads vying for space in between me and the fridge, jonesing for snacks. I grab myself a coke, or I make myself a tea, or I get myself a little snack. I take said snack into the living room and set it on the coffee table. I can turn around for a second without worrying that someone isn't going to swing a teddy at someone else and send my cup flying. I curl up on the couch, fluff my blanket over myself and relax.

Then guess what happens.

Someone. Comes. And. Takes. A. Sip. Of. My. Coke.

AAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhh.

And he has no idea why, at the end of the day, with the kids tucked in bed and the house all quiet and without four kids all jostling for space on my lap all at the same time, why oh why I wouldn't want to share my coke with him.

Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.

What was the title of this post again? Oh yeah - double standards.

I take sips of his cokes all the time. But that's okay. It's different.