Yesterday, after my little jean-buying expedition, I returned to a house full of crabby children. My children have been getting progressively more crabby since the Mad Scientist left. Only a third of the way through this little experiment (not quite, actually) I am not at all happy to note that tantrums are increasing exponentially. I don't really blame them. I feel like pitching a few myself. But that doesn't make theirs any more pleasant to deal with.
One of the first things that happened when I got home was, I was presented with my glasses. Monkey3 had snapped the temple off. They were two weeks old.
The glasses they were replacing had been purchased before I married the Mad Scientist, which is to say the prescription was a bit out of date. Also, in an attempt to assist me in putting them on one morning, Monkey3 had bent the frames so they sat funny on my face. All this meant that, previous to my new pair, wearing my glasses inevitably meant a headache, which produces a crabby mama. It's a no-fail formula.
It turns out that breaking the glasses that replaced the crappy ones I've been putting up with for the last six years or so (they're older than that, that's just when they started being crummy glasses) also produces a crabby mother. Now instead of wearing crummy glasses, I'm totally without, because I had to mail them back to my optometrist for the warranty to be honored. (They have to physically verify the break.) So, when I take out my contacts in the evening, I'm basically blind as a bat. Which, incidentally, also produces a crabby mother.
Right now, being a mother involves a tremendous amount of crabbiness.