Things that inevitably happen when my husband works 48 or more hours straight:

First and foremost I go insane.

Some household disaster occurs. Dishwashers overflow. Carbon Monoxide detectors malfunction. The toilet clogs. The computer hard drive self-destructs. I throw out my back. It snows ten inches.

This time it is my daughter's digestive tract that stages a revolt. While we are on our first playdate of 2015. Maybe our first playdate of the whole winter.

I hear the word diarrhea about 300 times. Like an endless, loop recording.

This is followed in quick succession by these stupefying phrases: "I wonder when I can have guacamole chips? I wonder when I can have a cupcake? I wonder when I can eat my Valentine's candy?"

I ignore each of these and their myriad repeats. For the most part. But each time I hear them I must admit a little bit more of my mental stability is chipped away.

Then there are the cat complaints. The cat who is "doing this, doing that, sitting here, licking there, clawing my legs, biting my face, basically refusing to be a docile lump I can man-handle at will and I feel the need to tell you about it like it's the first time. every. five. minutes."

Finally, we arrive at the cabin fever portion of the 48 hours. Namely being trapped indoors all day, each day, during this ungodly cold spell.

The only thing we can think of once the school subjects of Spanish, Science, Reading, Phonics, Spelling, Handwriting, Math, Typing, and Piano have been completed, the daily chores have been accomplished, painting and Play-doh-ing have both been suggested and undertaken, is to ricochet a bouncy ball here, there, and everywhere in the house. 

Then we are totally and completely surprised every time it is lost and needs grown up help in order to be located. 

And finally, when my already fragile nerves can take no more of the noise it makes careening off furniture, base boards and vent covers and I banished it's use to the basement, imagine everyone's shock when in 2 minutes flat it finds itself behind the chest freezer.

Of course, we can not just accept defeat. No, not without tears and the kind of oh so prolific "you have ruined my childhood forever because you refuse to move a pile of Goodwill-bound crap and brave damp and dust and spider webs to acrobatically retrieve it" protestations. 

Mind you, these are the same and yet uniquely tailored protestations I have already heard in the past 24 hours about such things as, in no particular order of importance:

   Doing Spanish 

   Leaving the cat alone

   The angry-welt ramifications of not leaving the cat alone 

   The purple paint dripping across my floor

   Not getting treats

   Turning the TV off 

   Not needlessly using the bathroom every 20 minutes 

   Getting ready for bed

   What books we read 

   How the blankets are arranged

   And... in general being home, alone, with a mother who has not only had it, she has realized she has at least 12 more hours to go...