Hold That Thought — The Barbarians Have Arrived

Body odor. I have that today. I’m just sitting here in my own stink, and I don’t care. It was supposed to be a pretty sort of day, a perfumed sort of day, and yet here I am smelling my own sweat in the shadows of the living room while holding a mug of coffee with grains floating on top. Some days you just wake up this way.

There it goes again, that sound of toddler threats coming from within the children’s room. They are the three-year-old version of vicious swear words, only they aren’t actually comprehensible at all. Maybe it is more like the sound of a barbarian charging onto the battle field. Either way, hold that thought—

So anyway, today was supposed to be pretty, or maybe just normal, or at least not smelly. It started out with the lovely idea that we ought to use that little tea set we were gifted recently. I have been beginning to notice some subtle hints that maybe I am not raising the children I thought I was…maybe they are in fact the children of some barbarian clan. The Goths maybe? Too far away?

The tea set was suddenly like a civilized bright light, which was actually quite literal while the sun clashed against the tea pot sitting by the westerly windows. The idea seemed so brilliant, as ideas often do the first moment they are conceived. We will have a tea party and practice our manners, I thought joyfully.

There is that barbarian screech coming from the bedroom again. The children were put to bed an hour ago, but it is just one of those sort of nights that no one tells you about when you are pregnant. Hold that thought—

So anyway, what the hell was I thinking inviting barbarians to a tea party? Barbarians don’t even like hot tea. Truth be told, Americans don’t even like hot tea. Well, maybe the ones that live among the original thirteen colonies and are still holding onto great-great-great-great grandma Jane’s hand painted periwinkles do. I can’t speak for them.

I had to dig around in my spice cabinet for a bit, but I managed to rustle up some tea bags—not breakfast tea, but some passion fruit something-or-another herbal tea. It tinged the water a deep purple color immediately. It looked like someone had beaten the brew until it was bruised to a sad state of affairs. So, naturally, I added heavy cream, because there is very little in this world that is not improved by heavy cream. It turned the lovely pink of a baby’s nose.

I let out a deep sigh, feeling confident that nothing could go wrong at a tea party with pink tea.

Oh for god’s sake, here we go again—the howls of warfare over a stuffed animal or someone tapping on the headboard by someone else’s head. It seems that I have not properly exercised the ability to use a cuss word muttered under my breath lately, but nights like these are catchup sessions. Hold that thought—

So anyway, I collected the children into the room. The boy, having been held captive by the flu for the last 72 hours had the wild look of freedom in his eyes. The tot, being a tot, had the wild look of a tot in her eyes. I reassessed the situation in my head. Maybe we will just focus on one thing today—like politely sitting in our seats with feet on the floor and not fidgeting around or trying to assault a fellow clansman.

I nearly got this explanation out of my mouth before I noticed the tot rolling around on her chair like a turtle trapped on its back. I gave her the look. She sat upright. I elegantly poured the tea into the miniature cups with little handles so small that most of the men in my family would not be able to effectively grasp them with their fat fingers.

As soon as the tea hit the boy’s cup, it was already up, and he was demonstrating to us the unique ways of holding a tea cup, a large percentage of which were not likely to result in tea actually reaching the mouth.

“Let’s be nice to the cups,” I said to deaf ears. “The whole point of good manners is so that we don’t annoy other people or destroy things.”

I turned my head and there was the tot back in turtle position. My head swiveled back toward the boy, who was holding the tea cup in a manner that threatened its chance of being used at a future party. I swiveled my head the other way, and the tot was taking an enormous bite into a muffin, crumbs shooting out of her full mouth as she said to me: “The tea isn’t too good.”

And there they go again. Okay, that’s it. May the best barbarian win. He or she may then proudly claim ownership of newly conquered bedroom land. Barbarian war cries be damned, y’all are on your own — I’m not holding another thought.

So anyway, the boy responded with: “It isn’t tea, it’s pee!” This was followed by hysterical laughter from the two ends of the table and followed up with chants of “It’s a pee party! It’s a pee party!”

Sigh

Fingers crossed, but if they ever go to sleep tonight, I think a full night’s rest might restore them back into modern times…and civilized behavior. If I get into the shower, I might too.

What a smelly sort of day. Nothing stinks more than a barbarian. Or a barbarian's mother.