Can you imagine a scene where Michelangelo climbs down off his scaffolding to admire his handiwork in the Sistine Chapel only to have the Pope come in, and spying a wall in the back of the chapel left unpainted, remark, "I thought you were going to help me spruce this place up?"
I can because as I am the Michelangelo in my house and someone who shall remain nameless is the Pope, I live just such an unappreciated life.
Because I am a most excellent mother and wife I routinely take responsibility for getting my children ready for school- fed, dressed, packed, bottles made, surprise poop diapers changed, and mass of three year old hair brushed. Trust, this is a choreographed work of art. And remember, I work, too.
So imagine my surprise when the Pope of my house became perplexed one morning when Sam did not have her shoes on, turning to me with a disgusted, "I though you were going to help me get them ready!"
Sadly, the Pope is no longer with us as something snapped inside me when I was tragically unappreciated and accused of mommy failure. Moments after he uttered those fateful words I plunged my bare hand into his chest, broke off a rib, pushed deeper into the chest cavity until I was elbow deep in pope-guts and wrapped my hand around a major organ. I then yanked my hand out of the goo and gazed upon his still beating, sorry excuse for a heart. I watched the pulsating, red, blob for a moment then chunked it at the wall where it stuck for a sec then slid slowly down to the floor leaving behind a sticky, shiny, red trail of yuck.
Then I did a little dance around the body.
Perhaps, I over reacted. Perhaps.