Last night, Tina and I tried to watch “The Descent,” but ultimately turned it off. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but in the last year, I’ve found I’ve had very little stomach for horror films, despite an affection for the genre. Even before the cast gets lost underground, I found myself annoyed by the director’s use of cheap scares — I don’t have a lot of patience for sudden jolts of feigned violence, the cinematic equivalent of getting behind an unsuspecting person and screaming: “boo!”

I know the director (Neil Marshall?) was trying to accomplish some pretty complex things with the film, but neither the cast or the budget was sufficent for it. I appreciate the effort, but in the end, I just didn’t have it in me to watch people get killed senselessly on screen.

Some days it’s so difficult, that by the time you reach that magic moment when the girls are asleep and it’s time to clean up the huge heaps of mess they made, you don’t know what to do. Freedom beckons, and it is easy to ignore the mess. I feel like that today.

The terrible two’s have come early. Today, I pulled Rachel out of the dishwasher possibly four times. Yesterday, no less than seven bites were exchanged between the girls, typically in response to the theft of a toy, control of a toy, or because biting is “funny.” It’s amazing how fierce their competition is — even when I come home, they fight over who I will pick up first. On Thursday, when I put Anya down to pick up Rachel, Anya screamed: “HE IS MY DADDY!”

Television is watched in fits and starts, paused to break up a fight, put a leash on a stuffed dog, or give someone “nummies.” Dinner is spent trying to hide pools of ketchup on my plate — the girls are obsessed with “dippy.”

I need a nap.