Packing up and getting dressed, brushed, fed and medicated (when a daughter is sick) consume time almost as though it feels as if traveling back in time to the moment I've decided it's time to go. The two and a half year old beautiful and funny girl has played with books, the shopping cart, fifteen random little toys while the oldest six and a half year old beautiful and stubborn plays with the keyboard, stuffed animals, pencils, coloring books, markers. The room looks as though it continues for days with debris, and, it's time to go. It's been time to go for twenty minutes yet here we are preparing for the afternoon. Yes, afternoon as the morning has been full of entertaining those two lovely and rambunctious children with Netflix, Disney Channel, and "the house". The house: the term described by the summer's eighty-five percent bread-winner, my husband, as he enters from work. Look at "the house" he exclaims. Meaning is disastrous. Dreadful. Frightening. My reaction and anticipation are tangible; if only I could grab it, throw it in the garbage can and rid it. However, I do try to ease those homecomings. I'm not blind. The house appears played in all day by my two young darlings. This is what we do and how we play. Kids, I say, Hurry up, Daddies coming home! Adding to our departure time we use the shopping cart to clean away "the house" to the kids' room so it transforms to our home. We leave for the day and my stomach twists back to normal.