Uberwhelmed

It's official: I'm overwhelmed--superwhelmed--extrawhelmed--uberwhelmed. Is there a cardinal rule against admitting that in the blogosphere? The baby I can handle. It's the other four sub-adult beings in the house, and their dishes, and their laundry, and their homework, and their lessons, and their subversion of my Great Plan of Domestic Bliss. Comrade Mother knows how to make you happy if you will just toe the line. She can force bliss into this home if you will only listen to her. She is not crazy!