Vacation? For who?

It is that horrible week come 'round again. The week in which the children are sent back into the fold for February vacation. It is only Tuesday and we are all ready to eat hand grenades. I would actually eat a Claymore if need be. The dialogue this morning would perk the ears of any social worker/concerned citizen.
"Mom, if you had a shotgun, I bet you'd shoot me. Wouldn't you?"
"Why do you say that, Lucian?" Of course, the child is covered with maple syrup which I am sure he will distribute into various pockets of the living room. And in a day or two I will sit down to play the piano and Middle C and all the notes surrounding will be covered with dog hair and sticky sh*t.
"Well, whenever I do something bad you get a look. And when I do something really bad your eyebrows go straight up."
"So what does that tell you then?"
"Not to look at you when I do something bad?"

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. I was hoping he'd come to the conclusion that perhaps he shouldn't do bad things, but, of course, he didn't make it that far. In fact, he then jumped from the table almost directly on to the dog and began using the dog's ears as reigns.

Anna, on the other hand, knows to keep her actions to herself. Then when no one is looking she takes out the metaphorical dagger and hacks away at things. Her mouth is also a main source of frustration for everyone in the house.
"Anna, you need to finish cleaning your room."
"No way. That's all I'm doing for today."
These are my Linda Blair moments where I can see myself spewing green vomit and jamming a crucifix into my....eye. But I don't, I don't reach out and grab her by the ear and drag her up the stairs so that I can throw her out the window along with ALL 90000000000 toys she has. Instead, in a calm voice laced with danger I simply say, "Anna, have you lost your mind, girl? Get your *ss back up there right now and clean that sty."
Usually that's all that's required. Usually.