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“MOM!” Paige yelled, while running through the house like a tornado.  She was carrying a small, plastic, dollar-store flashlight in her hand, complete with a yarn ribbon to hold it around her neck.  “Can you put batteries in this for me?!”

Apparently the school has not gotten the memo that I have enough useless junk around here.

They have a reward system at the school that if the kids are well-behaved, they earn tallies.  Five tallies are worth twenty-five cents.  At the end of the week, you earn a trip to the school store and can pick something out with the tallies you’ve earned.  A great idea in theory, but I have had more expendable things filter through this house than I care to take a guess at.

This week’s idle junk was a necklace/flashlight.  Batteries not included.  Naturally, I had just parked my lard ass on the couch after cleaning up from dinner.  When my butt hits any type of cushioned or non-cushioned surface, an alarm goes off in my children’s brains signaling an intense, burning desire for something.  Never mind if it’s something they can get themselves.  They must have my immediate help in getting said item.

“Yes,” I sighed.  “Give me a minute, and I will get you batteries.”

This did not placate my eldest child.  She held onto the arm of the couch, and bounced off of it as if the floor may be made of trampolines.  When I yelled at her for that, she started spinning in the middle of the room, while simultaneously flipping her hair, like a rock star on coke.

“OKAY!  STOP IT!” I yelled forcefully, since asking her nicely didn’t seem to even register.

As expected, all the screaming attracted the attention of the littlest child.

Now they are milling around.  Paige is still spinning, and Allie is now dragging around the dog by her ear and laughing like a hyena.  The dog, not so much.

“ALRIGHT!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.  A lot of that goes on around here.  It’s no wonder the neighbors give us a wide berth.  “IF YOU DON’T GO PLAY, I WILL NOT BE PUTTING BATTERIES INTO YOUR TOY!”

The kids scattered like game after a hunter’s shot.

As they vacated the living room, I heard, “Alright, alright, don’t have a bird.”

And that’s how my seven year old told me to go to hell.