I know why I’m so tired. You probably think you do too, but if your opinion leads to the Turkey Day Bonanza happening tomorrow (holy shit, tomorrow?), you’re a bit off. Not completely, just a bit. Yes, I have a million and three things to do. But they’re things I like doing, so they don’t tire me out like say laundry or dishes or vacuuming might. Yeah, there is a considerable load of dish washing involved, but I have my trusty dishwasher with it’s super fast 30 minute cycle and that keeps me rolling right along.

No, what tires me out is the family. Especially the two masculine members of the family.

Man-thng wanted the kids to go to bed earlier than I was in the habit of doing. Tigger-ette would go down at 9, Muppet at 10. Mr. Man didn’t like this because at 10 he was exhausted and in dire need of sleep. So now we put the kids down earlier. Like half an hour to an hour earlier. Hell I’ve even been able to get them both down before 8.30 at times. I am a miracle worker—praise me. And the result of all this work is that Mr. I’m-so-tired stays up even later, watching TV while I lay restless on the couch (because it’s closer to the toilets) unable to sleep until he says, sympathetically, “I should probably let you sleep.” No, darling, you should definitely let me sleep, especially when I yawn so often and so deeply that the barometric pressure changes in the entire village.

The lack of sleep is a minor thing though when compared to the Biggest Problem In The House. That title belongs to the other half of the Testosterone Duo, the half whose cuteness saves his life more often than he’ll ever know. He’s only alive today because he’s too cute for words, God’s honest truth, because yesterday I was going to kill him.

Yesterday I was busy, busy in the way I’m only busy once a year, and always at Thanksgiving. Cooking for the masses is one of those things that takes rhythm—once I’m in the groove everything rolls smoothly. Knock me out of the groove and not only do I turn into Psycho-Bitch, but I have a very difficult time getting anything done. Yesterday Muppet’s entire reason for breathing was to keep me out of my groove. Not only did he empty every cabinet in the living room and spread their contents high and low, but he decided it was also the day to revert back to the Demon Un-Potty-Trained Non-Angel. He peed in his pants, all over the floor and on the couch. Thaaanks. And then, once I had that entire mess cleaned up, he pushed Tigger-ette’s playpen over to the couch, climbed up, stood up and peed directly into the pile of Mega Blocks she’d strewn everywhere. Like one of those stupid garden fountains. Lovely! Not only did I have another mess to clean up, but I no longer had a place to stash the Tigger-ette one who just wanted to jump, jump, jump all day long.

See, this is why I’m pooped. It’s not the cooking that’s killing me. It’s the rest of it.