Lets give this a shot.

I am married to a paragon of patience. A martyr (without dying) of motherhood. A champion for the children.

A little before lunch, I was at work and received a text roughly to the effect of: "They're screaming, and won't stop screaming. I'm taking them to the nail salon so the little Korean ladies can play with them." I, of course, offer condolences and volunteered to valiantly leave work early to assist. She indicated she had it under control, and that I could continue to jam my face against the grindstone.

As I was finishing up, I sent a message home: "Headed Home, need me to stop for anything?"

And her response was: "Thank God. They haven't stopped screaming today except when we left the house."

I walked in the door to find my domestic goddess looking like this.

Except instead of a chair, it was a baby. And instead of a poor black child, she was a middle-class white twenty something woman.

Pity overtook me, and I sent her straight off to the bath, then dinner, then bed. So, I guess it wasn't much of a straight shot, more of a meandering rest break. So here I sit, watching a pair of sleeping infants and watching a TV show that's not about housewives, be they Real or Desperate. Meanwhile she's taking a nice, night starting, nap.

We're going to try to switch off a feeding or two for a couple nights and see if one person can manage the ladies long enough to give the other a shot at a full REM cycle.