Back on the Chain Gang

Summer hazy days are over and reality has come to bite us full force on the arse - school's head has awoken spitting like a cobra poisoning those lie-ins and hours of fun. Noone in my house is happy.  Noone in my house does anything but glare.  Nothing is right and everything is - OMG sooooo not fair!
Seven o'clock knock on the door is greeted by new realms of obscenities from the twins; the eldest usually answers with a shout : "I know already!" muffled from under the duvet and the youngest bursts into tears.  It's a happy home!
 Breakfast is a silent affair unless uniform has been misplaced and then pandemonium breaks out.  I sit watching them race helter skelter trying to find clean shirts, trousers and pants, a wry smile on my face awaiting the insults to ensue: "Where is my.......? Why can't you sort it? I wish you could buy a mum1" I have bred misogynists but I remain sitting, reading the newspaper and pointing in various directions as the clock ticks. Eyes are clearly just decorations on my sons' faces and the laundry pile is a mysterious place to which  they dare not venture.  If, however, clothes are not the issue of the morning then the quiet is only broken by the loud chomping of jaws as pounds of cereal are consumed.  A quick tussle of testosterone as they barge their way out of the door and I am left to clear away the remnants of oats and barley and crockery before I head for work.
Evening is equally as pleasant.  I become cook, counselor and referee.  The eldest locks himself in his room and rarely ventures out unless to play rugby or depart for the gym which gives me the perfect opportunity to change his bed sheets which seem to have usually become crusted to the mattress! The twins enact a scene from "Bugslife" as they roll around incomprehensible on the floor in a punch-up, generally over a pen!  The youngest is still crying due to homework. So I race around loaded with offensive smelling sheets, opening the oven door with my foot to ensure the food is edible and with one hand grab a ladle with which to separate "double trouble" and in between all this talk the youngest through his latest schoolwork induced panic attack.  It's a happy home.
Bedtime is a trauma.  The youngest has developed a fear of the dark, ghosts and sleep.  The twins still grunt profanities to each other from their bedrooms and the eldest scolds me for daring to enter his domain to change his sheets. "Well, darling, I came, I saw but I was conquered by the pile of damp tissues amassing on the floor so I left that for you to pick up in case IT were important!" I sweetly retort.