Cloudy, cranky skies in my corner of Virginia today.
And it's looking like it might rain outside as well.
I have four children. Four, because my husband and I only have two hands a piece so any more offspring and we'd have some free-ranging, which doesn't make me very comfortable. They are stair steppers, as the saying goes. This is nice because we got the diaper business over all at once.
However, it does make for a protracted slog through adolescence. Three daughters, one son. that means out of every month, only one week has the potential (and only the potential) of not being driven by hormones. As I am the mother, I have reserved the right to be as hormonal as I like, when I like. I keep it together admirably well, except for when I don't.
The ten-year-old daughter is my current headache. She is, ah, a sensitive child. "Sensitive," of course, is code for "being apt to cry, be moody, and sulk when the urge strikes." She doesn't throw scenes as much as have three-act plays, all created and directed by the leading diva, herself. This is compounded by the fact that she can be hyper-responsible for her age, so the yawings of her emotional barometer can give all of us whiplash.
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