Being a stay at home mom of three young children, I often describe my life as "living in a high priced jail" and that "I get out on parole to go to the grocery store." The problem is, my parole is always a supervised one. In the Monopoly game of life, I have drawn the card that reads, "Get Out Of Jail Free (as long as your daughters, Curly, Larry and Moe accompany you everywhere!)". This condition that is placed upon my probation necessitates logistical planning,  a la Norman Schwartzkopf, for every trip, large or small.

I plan my errands at least 24 hours in advance, considering factors such as driving time, proximity of each store, and naptime. (Woe betide any child who dares fall asleep in the car at 10am and mess up the standard 1pm nap!) Now, I am a firm believer that every journey does in fact begin with a single step. However, it also begins with three carseats, one blankey, 4 crayons, two notepads, three juice boxes, one Teletubbie, and the soundtrack to every Disney movie ever produced. And that's just for a trip to the post office! <continued below>

You know, something happens when you restrain young children and back out of your driveway.  They immediately become obsessive about their "space". "Mommy! She has her foot on my carseat!" "Her ponytail is hanging over my coloring book!" These same children, who just that morning tried to pee together on the toilet, cannot stand each other! The complaints about music are immediate too. If one wants The Lion King, rest assured the other is demanding Beauty & The Beast. (Heaven forbid, I should call dibs on the radio.) The entire drive time is accompanied by them singing several octaves higher and dramatically louder than the tape being played. (I have no delusions of having given birth to the next Celine Dion.)

By the time we have arrived at our destination, my nerves are already frazzled, frizzed, frayed . . . yes, my nerves have split ends (and the only hot oil treatment for those involves a massage table and a man named Fabio).

Before releasing them from their seats, we review the rules. 1.) You will behave and hold onto the stroller. 2.) NO FIGHTING 3.) You will behave and hold onto the stroller. Rule #4 changes depending on our location. ! If it is the Post Office: Break ANY of the rules and I swear on your Grandmother's eyes, I will pack you in a box and mail you to Cruella DeVil! The grocery store: Misbehave and you can kiss those fruit rolls goodbye. Wal-Mart: If you don't listen, we will NOT look at the fishes! And finally, the Mall: One more time, and there will be NO Icees

I think the trip to the Mall is the one I dread the most. Generally, it is because I am in search of something to wear, and small children are not exactly Prime Ministers of Tact. Our latest trip was a very last minute attempt to find a suitable outfit for a concert with my husband and his superiors. For future reference, I will opt for a potato sack and twine, before taking the three "Mr. Blackwells" into another fitting room. "Moooommmmmmyyy... you have a hole in your underwear.", spoken so those not only in the fitting area , but in the entire department could hear. "Moooommmmmmyyyy... you look stupid in that!!" And the cherry on top of their public critique "parfait". "Mooooommmmmmmmyyyyy... why are your boobies droopy??" Followed by the newly created chant, "Droo-py boo-bies! Droo-py boo-bies! Droo-py boo-bies!" To the person who snickered audibly in the booth next to ours, A POX ON YOUR TAUT, NEVER-GAVE- BIRTH-AND-NURSED- THREE-CHILDREN BOOBS! Needless to say, there were NO Icees on this trip.

Heading back to the car, I always feel as if I have now drawn the card reading, "Go to jail. Go directly to jail. Do NOT pass GO. Do NOT collect your Prozac prescription." The only saving grace about my parole is that I DO always time it to end right before naptime. Once back under house arrest, the wardens all lay down for a two hour recharge of their "Irritation Duracells".  Me? I spend the two hours here, at the keyboard, recounting my tales of woe for you . . . my fellow cellmates. See you in the chow line.