I can only speak for the majority of parents in the world, but since that's a fair number of folks, I will make this assertion: Daylight Savings is a horrible, beastly bane.

I feel pretty certain that your children, like mine today, are out of their minds with irritability and what might even look like insanity and/or rage. It's likely that not only have they had entirely too much sugar since Halloween but also not nearly enough sleep what with the late night on Saturday and then that bitchy DS yesterday.

NO ONE needs an extra hour the day after Halloween. I myself do not feel I need an extra hour anytime except if I'm sleeping soundly in a building in which my children aren't OR on vacation alone or with my husband. Those are acceptable times to lengthen any given day.

The kids were up before 5 this morning. Of course they were because normally that would be just before six which, sucktastically enough, is the norm for Jack. Ol usually goes nuts and sleeps for an extra twenty.

There are some mornings I swear I'd consider giving Jack hormones to hasten the puberty onset because only then, do I hear, do boys reliably start sleeping like the lazy slugs mothers desperately need them to be.

Especially when you must "fall back" in time.

I knew things looked rough when I picked the boys up from school. Clearly they had had good days but had largely used up all good will and positive energy whilst there. This is, of course, optimal; I'd rather them be saintly at school and give me shit instead of the reverse. But still.

We got home and heinous mayhem ensued. In the meantime, Oliver donned the Padmé on Geonosis costume (you know, Padmé Amidala, Queen of Naboo; Star Wars) and so looked like some sort of androgynous ninja dressed in a skintight white jumpsuit. His Superman underwear showed through winningly. It was really quite a look.

This is not Oliver, should anyone be wondering. This is a model. We don't know her. Plus, she isn't wearing royal blue superman undies.

Mercifully, our marvelous babysitter, K, soon arrived, and I left for the market as the boys were pummeling the carpet with Magna-tiles because, duh, they're bombs. Not expensive toys.

I walked back in less than an hour later to Padmé screaming at Jack for daring to come within one foot of the green foam armchair that had come downstairs for some reason. Jack was shirtless and red-faced and sweaty; clearly he'd done his share of screaming too.

Pads threw himself to the kitchen floor, wailing, crying and thrashing about. I wanted to say, "Honey, you're getting that white jumpsuit awfully dirty," but decided against it. Jack was snotting and huffing and I told him to take deep breaths and pick up the Magna-tiles calmly. K continued cooking their dinner. She is unflappable in the best way.

I sent Padmé upstairs and while I unloaded groceries, notes started flitting down from his office: