Hog Wrestling

Wow. It's been a day. By 11:00 am, all this had happened: I'm pretty sure if I ever decided to try hog wrestling, I'd be an automatic professional, because this:

is pretty much what getting Carter dressed every day is like.  And that look on her face? Yes, that's EXACTLY the face I make while engaging in the grueling task.  Today I had to sit on him to get his shoes on, hang him upside down to get his pants on, and let's not even get into changing diapers...
I'm not sure why he acts like that, I just know that if he doesn't want to do something, there is NO changing his mind. Cry, beg, plead, threaten, promise rewards... no go.
Anyway, so I get him dressed finally, and I'm in the process of decompressing when I hear the back door open and Carter is gone.  This is bad because Carter has no sense of safety or danger.  He almost always runs straight for the street. You have like, 2.5 seconds to get him before the cars do. Either that or he wanders away.
So I run out to get him and bring him inside.  No sooner do his feet hit the floor than he runs for the bathroom and starts playing in the toilet.
At this point, I decide "lock down mode" is in order.  I secure all outer doors with our high chain locks, and lock all the bathroom doors from the outside with a penny. Yes, I've learned a few tricks.
Breathing fire from my nose, I count to ten and attempt to sit down for a minute.  I've sent Carter to his room, upstairs.  After 2 minutes, a crash sounds that wakes the baby, and probably the dead.  Carter dumped the Lincoln Logs down the stairs. See?

You can just make out the lid clear at the top, and the box there at the bottom. Great fun.  I bite my tongue and go get the baby.  At about this point, Carter gets a hold of his brother's freshly painted pinewood derby car and breaks a wheel off.  I take it away and hide it while Carter breaks into a great immitation of a screaming banshee. 
Then, wouldn't you know it, the phone rings.  And I can't ignore it either because it's Logan's (my 8 year old son) Behavioral Therapist, and I've been trying to get a hold of him for weeks.
So I'm on the phone and Bella starts to cry because Carter's crying, and that sets him off all over again because he's "auditory defensive", and can't stand certain noises or levels of noise.  I put the behavioral therapist on hold while I lock my son in his room and plop Bella into her crib and go outside for a breath of air before I hyperventilate.  Ironic? I think yes.  As Tevia would say in the Fiddler on the Roof, "Sometimes, when it gets too quiet up there, I think you say to yourself, 'I wonder what mischeif I can play on my friend (Kathryn) today?'"