The kitchen really is the most dangerous room in the house.

Why are girls so mean to each other? I have never understood why they have this need to attack each other at any given moment. One minute they are all buddy buddy, painting each others nails. The next minute, I feel like I really need to keep a better eye on the knife block. Yesterday was one of the knife block days.

Daytime Emmy Nominee, who was of course home allllll day, only wanted to be in the kitchen when everyone else was. The kitchen social going on after school is not only irresistible to her, it also sends the “I’m famished and need noodles right now” signal to her brain. Because girls are mean, and Daytime Emmy Nominee has been feeling very left out for the last month or so, instead of just making herself part of the action, she was convinced she was unwelcome and required adult backup. She came in twice to tell me her tale of woe, both times I told her she had to make an attempt herself before I was getting involved. After showing me her distaste for my parenting methods via girl dramatics… twice… she returns… yet again. (This feels a lot like 20ish years ago when a “big meanie” wouldn’t share the swings at the playground.)

I head down to the kitchen, behind her, so she can work on fighting her own battles, and I sneak in undetected. At this point, I’m just going to sit, watch, and see what happens. Sassy Britches is in the kitchen, with another girl, and both are giving off such thick mean girl vibes, that I can feel them all the way at my seat at the table. As I sit and watch the dynamics, right off the bat, Sassy Britches makes a derogatory comment about Daytime Emmy Nominee. She hears it. I hear it. My first thought is, once again, of the knife block.

Girl wars have now broken out in the kitchen complete with the always dangerous phrase, “what are you going to do about it?” and dishes being thrown into the sink. (Now feels like a good time to mention that all foster parents should invest in Corelle dishes. How those suckers have survived all this time, I have no clue. But whatever voodoo Corelle is using has prevented me from having to eat on plastic. For that I am grateful.) Fingers are being pointed, heads are rolling and hair is being pulled back in preparation. Instead of punches, Sassy Britches tosses out another nasty comment and tells Daytime Emmy Nominee to get her belongings out of the shared bedroom. Sassy Britches expressed that in much more colorful terms that I have here, which I assume is a given. With that last blow, Daytime Emmy Nominee is done. She has decided she is leaving and she is leaving right now, wearing only a sweatshirt and spandex shorts. Barefoot in the snow, I figure she won’t get far, and I’m best to just let the snow cool her down. At the very least, she will come back for shoes.

Sassy Britches gets a speech about treating others as we want to be treated and admits that maybe she was unkind. Tears. Tears. More tears. Sassy Britches is still yelling that “everyone” is “yelling” at her. I usually find, “Sweet cheeks, you are the only one here yelling,” to be the best response. It is equal parts sarcasm, wit and seriousness. When delivered correctly, the results are immediate and the hysteria comes to a rather abrupt stop. Turns out my delivery here was perfect, as was timing, because just then, Daytime Emmy Nominee ran in for shoes, and another sweatshirt. She made no effort to grab pants, but who am I to judge. I managed to grab her by the edge of her shirt long enough to convince her to give herself a time out in my room, away from everyone else. Crisis averted and I don’t need to summon the police. Winning.

As I am basically the anti-crier, and only-ist only child I’ve ever met, it is almost like having each of these meltdown conversations becomes its own out of body experience. I grab a snack, watch it all go down, and give myself a pat on the back for handling it so well, with so many people, and then wonder how I, of all people, got here.

I bet hubby doesn’t worry about the knife block at work.