National Don’t Get Sold to Gypsies Day!

The gypsies are coming, the old people say,
To buy little children and take them away  -Shel Silverstein, “The Gypsies Are Coming!”

While my Facebook feed is filled with heartwarming statuses like “We have a Snow Day! Hot chocolate and snuggles by the fire!”  Awwww…that’s sweet.  We do that here too.  It’s called Tuesday.  It’s really neat.

I wish it were that theoretical Tuesday here. Instead, we’re celebrating National Don’t Get Sold to Gypsies Day!  Hooray!

It’s the magical day when I have heard enough of “He’s breathing my air” and “She’s touching me” and my very favorite whine “M-o-m-m-m-m-m-m he’s licking me.  Grossssssss”  The day when I think back to Mr Silverstein’s poem and wonder if there really are magical people who come and take them away.  Please?

The celebration begins with a festive chorus of whining voices followed by the dulcet tones of a mom uttering through clenched teeth “Go upstairs. Put on a movie. Shut the h…heck up and leave me alone for just half a minute. The next one to whine in my direction is getting sold to the gypsies.”

And then the game is on!

The most annoying child is getting voted out of the playroom.  I see it as Hunger Games meets Survivor meets Shel Silverstein in a competition for the bigger bedroom and a bathroom to themselves. It pits the strategy of the 3 year old who just peed on the bathroom floor against the splendiforous plotting of the 11 year old who is gathering all the Legos in the house for a wondrous contraption which is driving his brothers wild. The 13 year old is lecturing the 5 year old in words which are too fast to be deciphered,  and the baby is crooning to herself as she happily slings kitchen towels across the wooden floors.  The noise in the house has officially reached the level known as Cacophony! (All written large and angry red.  Italicized even, so you know it’s serious.)

“Oh sure,” you’d say.  “They’re happy noises.  Aren’t you happy that your house is filled with happy noises?”  And I’d say “What? I can’t hear you?! It’s too darn loud in here!” and then I’d start muttering about how people need to speak up if they want to be heard in a mad house like this one on a day when the sun isn’t shining and it’s not yet time to go out to play.

It’s the kind of day when I alternate between dreaming of the magical yellow bus, shaking my head in bemused wonder, and pondering chasing down the Gypsies.  I know where to find them.  I’ve seen them on TV.  They’re throwing bedazzled weddings in Ireland and drunkenly brawling in Tennessee.

I’m putting my children on notice.  I’ve had enough.  The gypsies are coming and someone is leaving with them!  If they aren’t careful, that person might just be me!