Mom, Interrupted

My job is hard. I mean really hard. In fact, I have the hardest job in the whole world. That's because my children are the most challenging group of little boys in the continental United States, possibly in all of North America.
You might not believe me and maybe (or even most likely) it isn't true but I need to believe it. I need to believe that if the story of Hercules happened today, one of his twelve labors would be going grocery shopping with all five of my children. I need to believe that if we produced a version of the reality show Survivor in which contestants had to do my job, they would vote themselves off because it is just that tough. I need to believe that doing my job would make Chuck Norris cry. Because here's the thing: if I can't blame my inability to get anything done on the nearly impossible nature of my job then there must be something wrong with me.
Of late, I have found that accomplishing anything, anything at all is an extreme challenge. Last week we had four days of "chef's special" style meals because I was unable to complete my grocery shopping. Why? Because I was constantly halted in my efforts by certain individuals. We will not name names. Instead, we will refer to them as interruption specialists. Anyway, these interruption specialists were pretending to be football playing zombies while I was trying shop. This involved running, hiding, and tackling each other, activities which were not appreciated by store employees. For some reason, the football playing zombies also felt a need to throw large quantities of cashews, cheese, bread and kool-aid packets on the floor. I am unsure why they did that unless, being undead and no longer able to eat, just the sight of foodstuffs filled them with a longing for their former lives and stirred within them a primal rage for the emptiness of their current existence. Although, that still doesn't explain the glue mess in the office supplies aisle or the decision of one zombie to sit down in the middle of the floor and refuse to move. In the end, I hauled five little zombies back out to the van, leaving my full grocery cart behind for some poor stocker to reshelve.
It isn't just the bigger tasks that go unfinished either. It's the little things, like unloading the dishwasher. Sometimes, it literally takes me all day to get that done. Even activities such as brushing my teeth or using the restroom don't happen without interruption. My interruption specialists are just that good. There is nothing quite so frustrating as closing the bathroom door only to hear "Mom!" being shouted by several different voices in a very insistent manner. It is no wonder that Susanna Kaysen used the title "Girl, Interrupted" for her memoirs about life in a mental institution. I certainly feel like I am going insane on a regular basis due to the constant interruptions. In fact, the more I think about it the more I am amazed that psychiatric wards are not filled to capacity with the stay-at-home moms of toddlers.
Interrupting is an art and one my boys have mastered. They have every variety of interruption down pat.
The random question: "Mom, if everyone in the world cried one tear, would it flood our
                                  basement?"
The random factoid: "Mom! In the Curious George 2 movie, the bad guy jumps out of
                                an airplane without a parachute but he doesn't die!"
The urgent viewing opportunity: "Mom! Mom! I need to show you something!"
                                                 "Okay, buddy. What am I looking at? That looks like a
                                                 clogged toilet."
                                                 "Yep. I had to clog it, Mom, because there was too much
                                                  poop."
The urgent call for assistance: "Mom! Mom! Mom! I need help!"
                                             "What's wrong?"
                                             "There are bumps in my sock."
The mysterious noise: "Guys! What was that sound?"
                                  "Don't worry Mom, we are just playing ball explosion and throwing
                                   balls down the stairs. If a ball hits you three times then you are out."
The ambiguous scream: "Hey boys! Is that a happy scream, an angry scream or a hurt
                                     scream?"
                                    "I only hit him one time!"
Probably the most disturbing interruption of all is the non-interruption, complete silence. It sounds like this:

When I hear that, I drop whatever I am doing and track them down. So, even when they aren't actively interrupting they are still a distraction. Maybe that's good. They make sure I keep my priorities straight; kids first housework second. Read, kids first, housework never. Anyway, I guess for now that is okay. I'll just have to embrace my identity as Mom..... interrupted.