Round One

My third child, Little H, is driving me crazy today. First cat out of the bag, he engineered a tantrum to rival a five-year-old over the difference between a tax receipt and a tax return. There I was, elbow deep in the second of my seven loads of laundry, when Little H stormed into the laundry room (where, I might add, against my home-building wishes and against my direct command, he installed a laundry sink between my washer and my dryer, necessitating a four-foot toss of the heavy soaked apparel into the maw of the Dryenator), waving last year's tax receipt.

This is not what I asked for!
You wanted the tax receipt and the tax return.
This is NOT a tax return.
I know that. It's the tax receipt.
You said you laid out the tax return last night.
No, I said 'the tax receipt'. It's all I found so far.
You said the tax return got water on it from the sink.
No, I said the tax receipt got wet.
I don't need this. I need the taxes.
I thought you needed the tax return.
This is not it!
I know that.
I need the tax return with your SS# on it.
I know right where it is.
This is not the tax return.
I KNOW! Would you quit saying that?
You don't know what you're talking about.
That is a tax RECEIPT!
I KNOW THAT! You are the one who called it a tax return.
No I didn't. Why would I do that? I know what it is.
The tax return is what I need.
I know. I just didn't get it yet.
This is not the tax return.
I KNOW!!! Will you quit?
I should know better than to try to talk to you.
You never could say what you mean.
You're the one who can't understand.
I'm not the only one.
Who? Who else?
Everybody at work that you yell at, and the kids, and my mom.
I can't take it anymore!

With that, Little H stomped back into the kitchen, threw his home-laid chicken eggs back in the carton, took his ham out of the skillet, rinsed the skillet like it had never been used, and took off for parts unknown, flapping his arms, badmouthing me.

Earlier in the week, he had asked for last year's tax receipt, and a copy of the tax return. Two items, you see. He needed the receipt for auto licensing, and the return for some retirement mumbo-jumbo. He said he didn't need them right away. It was kind of a busy week. Friday, I laid the tax receipt on the kitchen counter by Little H's phone, figuring that's where he would notice it. I did not yet have a copy of the tax return. After the laundry room kerflulffle, I went to the kitchen table and picked up the tax booklet (which housed the tax return) to make a copy. Little H had rematerialized and was plopped in the La-Z-Boy. He mocked me as I walked down the basement stairs. "I don't need it NOW."

Hillbilly Mansion. We fight more before 8:00 a.m. than most people do all year.