After returning from helping out my mother, I touched down in the middle of what I shall call, in a deferential nod to meteorological alarmists across our great land, “Toddler Shit-Storm 2010!” It appears my boys don’t care how exhausted I am. They only seem to care about who can shriek the loudest, longest and for the most inane reason.

As I type this (8:58pm Sunday night), Wyatt is in the nursery still screaming the swine slaughterhouse cry he learned from Boone. This caps a full day in which one or both of them were screaming and throwing fits. I’m barely exaggerating. By my calculations 85% of today featured a boy (or boys) wailing as the soundtrack. Of the remaining, non-crying time: 5% was their afternoon nap; 10% was them watching Elmo on TV; and 3% was me trying to remember how to do basic math.

At one point, we decided to take them for a trip to the toy store both as a morning outing and a bribe to get them to shut up. Boone was protesting so vehemently, his screams rattled the car windows. Following a particularly forceful squeal, I looked in the rearview just in time to see him throw up all of his breakfast. Yogurt, orange slices, waffle. The most important meal of the day became the most uncomfortable accessory of the day.

Of course, this finally gave him something justifiable to cry about, so he turned up the anguish. I told him, if he wanted to make us more miserable, the smell alone was plenty. I think the makers of our car seats would save parents some trouble by just making the fabric some sort of puke pattern. “Honey, tell me which of these car seats you want — Cheerios and puréed carrots or chicken nuggets, tomatoes and string cheese?”