I'm pretty sure that I'm certifiable

Correction.  I'm pretty sure that my children have pushed me to the point where I am certifiable.  Not like finger painting with your own excrement crazy, but clearly past the point of caring when you look like the lunatic parent in public.

To be fair, what strangers in public think of me has never been terribly high on my priority list, but now I don't even care what people that I know will see me again or recognize me think.  You can only take so much before the crazy comes out.  The voice pitch begins to change, chest tightens, you forget to breath, lips are pressed together so tightly that they disappear, thumbs dig into the tension spot right above your eyes, until finally, you can take it no more.

With a screaming baby half hitched on your hip and half sliding down your leg, dragging your tantruming toddler by the forearm (because you were smart enough to realize that all the swinging around, lifting and enthusiastic "escorting" that you did by her hands is likely why her wrist joints seem a little weak and crunchy) you break into a sweat.  Not necessarily from the crazy children that you're attempting to wrangle, but because you're trying to carry three grocery bags and a twelve pack of soda at the same time since there is no way in hell that you're making another trip back into the store to get what you need.