I have become a prisoner in my own home. A troubled recluse with hygiene issues. A withered shell of a human being, prone to fits of hysteria followed by catatonic states. Dilf is on the road like Johnny Cash in Walk the Line, leaving me with two demanding taskmasters who track me down no matter where I try to hide.

One goes to bed at midnight. The other wakes at 6 a.m. I am never alone. Not even while behind a locked bathroom door. "Are you going poopie, mommy? Okay, I'll just wait outside the door until you're done. Are you done? How about now? Are you done yet? Oooh, are you taking a shower? I want to take a shower with you! Can I?" pound-pound-pound on the door. "Mommy, can you hear me? I want to take a shower. CAN YOU HEAR ME??!!" pause. "Mommy, Younger went potty on the floor."

However, I belong to my nearby YMCA. My nearby YMCA has day camps for ages 3-6 (Hey! Younger's 3 and Elder's 6!) Three days a week. 9 a.m. to noon. I would drop them both up at the same location, and pick them up at the same location.

That's three hours, people. Three hours to take a bubble bath. Go shopping. Get a haircut. Unload the dishwasher without "help."

Hee hee. I can almost taste the freedom. Almost.