Maybe it was Greece being all over the news.

Maybe it was the awesome chicken kebab plate with the to-die-for tzatziki sauce I had at the Pita Heaven near work.

Whatever it was, the Greek fever had taken hold of me, and I was going to have me some good eatin’ Greek style! I’d do something little-kid friendly.  Pita, hummus, veggie burgers with tzatziki sauce in a pita, fries, a Greek salad, kalamata olives!  Healthy, delicious! They might not like everything, but surely there would be something for them to be excited about.

The day started out brilliantly.  We had been at a party for one of Riley’s classmates the night before, a party that took place so late in the evening, that before “Happy Birthday” was sung, people were grabbing their kids and sprinting out as if someone had yelled, “Fire!”  We got home at 8:30 p.m. and had both kids in bed by 9:15.  One saving grace of the party was that it was at a big sports arena, and the kids were able to run around and tire themselves out.

Before turning in, J and I set our clocks back an hour, and crawled into bed at 11:15, something that would normally only happen if, say, someone had begun beating us with polo mallets at 11.  We were sure that ol’ fall back magic would be lost on us, as children, damn them, don’t understand that extra hour thing. But somehow Zeus smiled on us, and the kids woke up at 7:30, which meant 8:30!  For the first time in three years, I woke up and lay there collecting my thoughts, as opposed to being startled from a deep sleep at the knife point of a babbling or braying child.

The day continued like a dream, Riley went to church with my mom, I had the joy of looking after only one child at the playground.  We all met back at home for lunch, where Riley and Aria ate with gusto.  They played, they bickered, I changed poopy diapers.  We were cruising into nap time, and I could almost taste the free time.  I’d finally get things done — blog, shop for dinner, fold laundry and maybe sit my black ass down for ten minutes.

Aware of the fact that a house with small children revolves around meals, I announced to J after lunch that we’d be having Greek food for dinner.

“Ah, the Greek Meltdown Dinner,” he answered.

“Yes, the Greek Meltdown Dinner!” I chuckled.

At 2:00 p.m. Aria went down for nap.  In the words of Michael McDonald, Shine Sweet Freedom.” (Shut up! Where were YOU in 1987?)

2:15 p.m. I put Riley down, warning him I’d take his trains away if he got out of his bed.  I went to sit at the computer. Not two seconds after my butt hit the seat did I hear his little feet padding down the hall.  ”I pooped,” he announced cheekily.  I got rid of the tennis-ball sized contents of his diaper, put him in bed, repeated my threat and went back to my laptop.

Again, the click of his door opening, footsteps and his impish little face.  ”What is it now?” I snapped.  ”I pooped again!”  Clearly, he was enjoying literally shitting all over my free time!  I changed his diaper and climbed in bed with him to settle him down.  Relatively well rested (not as tired as someone on a death march), and desperate to get stuff done, I lay there antsy and annoyed.   Riley’s breathing eventually settled into the deep, even rhythm of sleep, and I prepared to make my stealthy exit.

J’s key turned in the front door.  No, no, please Jesus, no!

Riley popped up in his bed.  ”Daddy!”

Shit.

“Don’t you even think of getting out of that bed,” I hissed, leaving his room to gather the scraps of free time the Gods had tossed me. I went back to blogging. J went in to see Riley. He returned, shaking his head. “It’s not happening,” he said.

Riley got back out of his bed again.  I’d had it with this kid.

“That’s it. I’m taking your train away!”

Screams.

Aria woke up.  My 90-120 minute napper got less than 60.  I felt violated, like someone just crammed my head in an airplane toilet bowl.

Oh, buck up little camper! All is not lost!  You have your yummy dinner to look forward to! Tzatziki!  Your fun family meal!  I fished my spirits right out of that toilet and I strolled both kids to the produce market around the corner.  I bought my ingredients, leaving hubby once again with a few minutes in the house alone, something for which I would have given my pancreas.

At 5:00 p.m., I began prep.  J chose televignorance over getting on the floor to play and draw with his children.  With no nap and his father’s failure to get down on his level, Riley was devolving into devil spawn.  J went to his computer, leaving the Lead Camp Counselor to cook, and supervise two under-slept kids, i.e., keep them from burning themselves in our postage-stamp sized kitchen and/or beating the living daylights out of each other.

I forgot to let Riley turn on the food processor for the tzatziki. He went ballistic.  As my sous chef and adventurous eater, I thought he’d love a taste. Wrong.  Aria was eating her weight in grapes.  Our house had the feel of an impending riot.

Finally dinner was served.  J was nowhere to be found.  I offered Aria some pita dipped in hummus.  She refused it.  I dipped it in the delicious tzatziki. Also refused.  Plain?  No way (her words). Veggie Burger?  F that s (not her words).  Only fries for my lady.  

Riley sat staring at his plate of veggie burger, fries and dips served in little bowls.  He shoved his plate away and whimpered.  Aria in a rare gesture of friendliness, scooted over to sit next to her brother in his Tripp-Trapp, leaving her own empty.  Riley pushed her away. She bit him.  He bopped her on the head.  I set Aria back in her own chair and carried Riley to the sad seat.

Upon my return, I sat Aria on my lap, a tactic I can usually use to get her to eat more.  I tried giving my fromage lover a piece of feta, only to have her rip from her mouth like sewage. Released from time out, Riley began giving me the business.  He wanted a sippy cup.  He wanted a regular cup. He wanted bubble water in his juice. No he didn’t.  More screaming. Another time out.

Everything tasted great.  The meal was a debacle.

By bath time both kids had completely short-circuited.  Riley wailed and howled in the tub as though he had just been sentenced to be the foster child of Michele Bachmann and The Situation.  I had an overwhelming urge to, as my good friend Katie La Varre once said, P.H.A.O.C.S  (put his ass on Craig’s List).  Getting both kids into bed was a battle of body and will.

But by 8 p.m. C.S.T. we were out of our misery.  Exhausted, both of our lovelies fell asleep almost instantly.

Once again, on Monday morning, they slept until 7:30 a.m.  I guess we came out even.

Greece should be so lucky.

For more hilarious and poignant reading material, please hop on over to Keesha’s blog at Mom’s New Stage.  Thanks, Keesha!!  Mmwwwwaaaah….