where i realize i'm ill-equipped to handle a large group of children like mine

The boys' school speech therapy is stupid, so they're enrolled in private therapy through a local college. It is low-cost, so everyone and their brother is all over it.

When we got signed up, they'd just started a Monday clinic. Then my kids got sick about 17 weeks in a row, and they called me to say they were having a problem with people "not showing up for appointments" on Mondays, and therefore they needed to close the clinic on Mondays to reduce their administrative costs. Sorry, everyone else who had Monday appointments.

So we got moved to Tuesdays. Along with, apparently, everyone else in the city of Cleveland.

Normally we are the only ones there for our 4:30 time slot, so after we shuffle around with the 4:00 other family in the miniscule waiting room, we have plenty of room to spread out. The girls watch the boys' therapy sessions on the closed circuit tvs, or play with the waiting room toys. I read. It's super.

The waiting room is really little and has four chairs. The children who need therapy at the clinic all have siblings, multiple adults to assist the child who needs therapy, or siblings+additional adults to mind the siblings while a parent assists with therapy. When we showed up today the waiting room held: a girl in an electric wheelchair with two adults, a boy with his mom, another two boys and their mom, and the five of us. In a room that small, it's really awkward to have so many people. It's like being in an elevator with nowhere to look. You're inside each other's personal space and awkwardly facing each other like you're about to kiss. If you're standing, your butt is in someone's face.

Then, P had a new therapist. He buried his face in my stomach and almost cried. The girls and I agreed to go sit in the therapy room with him. Unfortunately, this meant the girls needed to be silent... Angry Birds somehow got deleted from my phone and I couldn't get it to download again. My e-reader has crappy games. The girls complained and I shushed them angrily. Halfway through, P seemed comfortable so we headed downstairs.

Somehow, the waiting room had gotten even worse! I don't even know how many people were in there, because I felt panic rising through my chest and into my throat as soon as I looked in the doorway. There were about 12 boys playing phone or video games with the volume all the way up. Who does that? One of the phones or games was playing rock music at a radio level volume. Like you'd do if you were hanging out and cleaning the house with some music on.

Their moms were in the chairs, and the boys were sprawled all over the floor. It was like a slumber party at 6 a.m. Then the 5:00 appointment people started to arrive, and the thick, moist musk of boys who need deodorant but rarely remember to use it hung heavy in the air. Everything any child there said sounded like, "BLEDELEDELELEH!!!" and they all say everything in a yell because, you know, no one understands them. On one hand, it was comforting to know my boys are so normal among their articulation-challenged brethren. On the other hand, I wanted a cigarette.

The 5 minute car ride home was filled with:

• Miss A screaming at P for the sound he was making with his Pac Man kids' meal toy
• P cackling with evil joy
• Haney yelling, "AGAIN! AGAIN!"

At home I feverishly ate chocolate chips until P smacked Haney with a fallen tree limb, and we were back to business as usual. The director of the program emailed to promise me a playroom for the girls and a share of her personal chocolate stash for next week's appointment. Life is good.