7am Mornings of Hell For the Working Mom

7am Tuesday morning. An ordinary house in an ordinary neighborhood. At least from the outside. But looks can be deceiving. Screeching can be heard coming from somewhere deep inside the house. Suddenly a door flies open and a girl around the age of ten or twelve comes storming out. Her mother is right behind. “Why can’t I wear this? The weather will be warm today!” the mom screams “You know that is not true! Don’t you see yourself outside it is drizzling? Now get back in your room and put some sensible clothes on or you’ll catch your death dressed in that summer romper!” The girl rolls her eyes, sticks out her tongue, and then puts both hands over her ears and starts repeating “La la la la” over and over to drown out her mother’s voice as she runs away through the house with her mother at her tails. “Dad!” she calls out “Mom is going to hurt me!” Before the mom can catch her, a piercing scream rings out from another room.

The mother turns and rushes in that direction. Her youngest son, barely seven years old, slowly walks into her view, blinded by tears, his face contorted in pain. An ugly red gash covers one check and droplets of blood already begin to form. The door to the room he exited from stands open and inside she sees her oldest son, thirteen, with his hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh. When he sees his mom looking at him, his look changes from satisfaction to fear. “I didn’t touch him!” he screams in his loudest voice, which has recently deepened significantly with an occasional croak. “Don’t hurt me!” he screams, feigning fear…