I have been bested by Minecraft.

It's no secret our new thing in this house is Minecraft.  We held out as long as we could but we finally caved at Christmas.  Santa brought the kids Minecraft.  It was quite a letdown because all we could wrap was an envelope with the authorization code that needed to be entered into the computer to get the game started.  Once they figured it out though they took the envelope and ran with it.

They Ran.

We never saw them for the rest of Christmas.  Come to think of it, we saw very little of them in January, February and most of March.

Since then, we've been up to our armpits in Minecraft.  Every single thing in this house revolves around it.

And that, right there, is the rub.

We've had to find a happy middle ground where the kids are not plugged into the computer all day and life's passing them by.  They, on the other hand, would love to do nothing more than fight zombies and creepers, download mods and watch YouTube videos.

Truth be told, Minecraft is just one little part of the Total Minecraft Immersion.  You have mods, seeds, whole new worlds and maps.  All of them have to be thoroughly researched and examined on the iPad and then you chose which ones you want to download.

And you have not lived Minecraft till you've lived through the videos.  Oh dear God the videos.  They are a thing unto themselves.

We started off with these prepubescent teens, screaming, yelling and cussing every other word.  They would blow up sheep and use TNT and nuke whole damn worlds.  My kids were enjoying it a bit too much so that lasted less than two seconds in this house.

Then we found Mr. Paul.  He's the new man in our lives.  He's practically been living with us since right after Christmas.  His real name is Paul Sores Jr, and I can't tell you the number of night's I've spent with Mr. Paul, waiting for my own husband to come home.

He does the Minecraft videos in a nice, calm manner and he's downright easy on the ears.  That may not seem to be a big deal but when you are listening to these things for hours on end sometimes, voice quality becomes very important.  Trust me on this.

It got so bad at one point, I called the kids to come up and eat dinner.  They wolfed their food down in seconds. SECONDS.  Then, before I had had a chance to sit down to eat my dinner, I was being asked, "Mom, can I go back downstairs?  Can I, please?!?"  I brushed it off figuring if I ignored the question, I could at least get a little something to eat.

I was wrong.

"MOM, can I go back down stairs?!?"  Alex asked almost frantic, pacing, having to have an answer right that very second.

"Guys, I need something to eat.  Please look around you and put your dishes away.  Just give me a minute, would you?"

Well that wasn't even out of my mouth before my cute little kids with absolutely no gross and fine motor skills, found it within themselves to scoop up their dishes, round the bend of the island, turf the dishes into the sink, round the other bend of the island and with the dexterity of a skilled surgeon, set the microwave timer.

All in under ten seconds flat.

I remember standing there thinking, "What in the fuck just happened?  Jesus, I don't think I've ever seen them move that fast, Alex was almost fluid, even.  I could really use this Minecraft thing to my advantage."

And then it dawned on me, "Hey, why did you guys set the timer?"

"Well mom, you said to give you a minute.  I'm giving you exactly one minute.  Well, you now have forty-six seconds."  

So I stood there looking at my older two kids, all of us looking at each other, a three way stare down, going back and forth from looking at them to the microwave timer and back.  I never knew how excruciatingly long a minute, or forty-six seconds, could be until you're in a stare down with your two kids and the microwave.

DING!

And just like that, my older two ran like they had flaming fireballs on their heels, down the steps to the computers, back to Minecraft.  One of them ran around the corner, overshot it and smack-landed in the other side of the wall.  They righted themselves and kept right on going.  I could hear them in excited voices, "Hey lets see if we can get new saddles to ride the pigs!"

Gracie and I stood there looking at each other, wondering what in the hell just happened.

I stood there trying to figure out why in the hell a pig needed a saddle.

And that is one day in our life, living with Minecraft.

And I still don't know why a pig needs a saddle.  I did find out you have to have a carrot though.

What? You're not Irish?

I am Irish.  I'll wait till the severity of that sinks in.  

My dad came from Ireland and for my whole life, I've grown up around hot tea, wool sweaters and mashed potatoes with every single meal.  I've heard enough hornpipe and bagpipes to last a lifetime and I also know how to do a jig and a reel in my sleep.  If push comes to shove, I can slug out a steady stream of cuss words in full accent, always starting off with, "Bloody Hell..."  I do it much better, however, when I'm piss wasted, just saying. 

    

Anyway, my mom gears up for the Holy Day like no other.  Lizzy does Irish dance and she's been prostituted out like a French whore to every old folks home in Kansas City for the past two weeks.  She danced for miles and miles in parades and snow and she just keeps on going.     

I have danced my ass off.  

But what tops our St. Patrick's Day festivities is the clothes. Aside from walking around in green for the last two weeks, my mom tries to get anyone she can to dress in green with her.  Since the three year old is still young and vulnerable, and she doesn't run fast enough, she gets stuck wearing what Grandma puts her in.  And Grandam bought Gracie this cute little green shirt.  See that thing down there?  My mom kept telling me about the, "Adorable little shirt," she bought for her.  She failed to realize that all the white shamrocks, when put together, made a shape.  

A SKULL.  

My mom bought the girls skin-head tee shirts for St. Patrick's Day.

I have no earthly clue what she is doing.
Practicing to lead jets down the jetway, I guess.  

All they needed were a few tube socks full of rocks and they could go out and raise hell, in true Irish fashion, with their brother.

Only fitting I put Creeper heads on the girls.  Bonus points because they are green.  

And then I made this:

Anyone sends this to Cake Wrecks and
I'll find you and gut you.  Fair warning.  

An Irish Lamb Cake.

Normally in our house the Sacrificial Lamb Cake is reserved for Easter but I wanted to get an early start.  Nothing says, "Happy St. Patrick's Day!" like cutting into the green guts of a lamb.

And go read this right here, if you want to hear about our past Easter fun but I suggest you stop drinking your soda because we don't do holidays in the normal fashion around here.  You've been warned.

I already know, I totally fucked up the icing.  It got all droopy and was a bloody mess.  The kids thought it was hysterical, renamed it George, and instead of a lamb it was now a sheepdog.

Whatever.

And what did Alex do for St. Patrick's Day?  He played Minecraft, watched YouTube videos about Minecraft, downloaded mods for Minecraft, made Minecraft skin, new Minecraft worlds, found emeralds and redstone and generally talked my ear off about?  Minecraft.

I went with it.

If this is not rock bottom I'm gonna be pissed.

You know what is awesome about pneumonia?

NOTHING is awesome about pneumonia, that's what's awesome about pneumonia.

My kids gave me one hell of a cold that turned into a sinus infection that turned into a antibiotic resistant strain of pure evil that set up shop in my lungs.  Anyone else thinking of that Musinex commercial now?  For the past two weeks I've been working on breathing.  Just breathing.

And when I'm sick its amazing what gets lost in the cracks of everyday life.

The kids had an after school art program they were begging to go to, just begging.  I signed them up and promptly, and totally, forgot about it.

So that Monday my daughter went out after school for me to pick her up only I wasn't there.  Somewhere in the back corner of my mind I knew she had after school art but here's the rub: she did not.

I didn't remind the kids what the day looked like from our daily calender and she didn't know.

After twenty minutes of standing outside, the secretary figured out what was going on and ushered her into the art room.  You know, the art room her brother was happily sitting in, crafting away.  See, he remembered he had after school art.  It just never crossed his mind to see where she was.

When she walked into the art room and saw him happily crafting away she broke down in tears all over again.

When I went to pick the kids up I was pulled aside, told what happened and again my little girl went turned into a complete and utter puddle.

I felt horrible.  She was out front waiting for me and I never came.  Talk about feeling like a shitty, horrible parent.  I calmed her down, bribed her with a trip to Dairy Queen that was mostly more for me and I thought things were right with the world.

Only they weren't.

"You don't love me.  You hate me.  I think I want a new mom.  If I had a new mom, she'd never forget me.  She'd love me...and make me cookies....and not forget me in front of school."

All the way home.

I had enough.  I snapped pulling into the subdivision.  Pulled a hard right and curbed the minivan.  All the safety harnesses were working on the seat belts.  I confirmed it.

"GOD BLESS AMERICA, I'm sorry I forgot to tell you!  Mommy's sick!  I don't feel good.  You guys gave me some horrible plague and I'm sorry I forgot one little thing.  I'm sorry!"

Cough, cough, cough, hack, hack, cough.....shallow breath in and....

"You know, you guys are old enough to look at that calender in the morning and see what is going on in your lives.  It's up there for a reason and it's most certainly not there for my health.  Now I want QUIET for the rest of the way home!"

And I pulled back out onto the street and drove the whole fifty feet to our house in silence.  Only to walk inside and to be met by a calender that looked like this:

She in PJ's....don't judge. 

And two kids, exclaiming, "See!!!  How can we possibly know what is going on, Gracie drew all over it!  This is all your fault.  Our new mom would never let this happen!"

I gave up.  I swear, one day I will have grown children that can function for themselves.  God as my witness, I will.  They may be in therapy for the rest of their lives but by God, it will happen.  

Right now I want their new mom to come in here and see what she can do with this place, she can start by cleaning that damn calender board.  That things a mess.