Sweet. Baby. Jesus.
Where do I turn in my Mother card?? Or maybe I can just find a good boarding school...
Wine may not be enough tonight.
So, the girl child comes home from school in full on crazy mode today, having a meltdown every 3.7 seconds. I attempt to work for a while longer, though I am constantly being harassed by this strange replica of my offspring.
No, I will not take you to your grandmother's.
No, you cannot go out and play.
No, your room is not clean (and yes, you have to clean it).
The boy child gets home and raids the cabinets, wreaking his usual havoc on the kitchen. After snack #1, he breezily says, See ya, going out to find my friends! [heads out the door]
This bugs this shit out of me, by the way. At some point his 10 year old self decided it was okay to tell me what he's going to do. As if notification is all that is required. No response from me is taken as de facto consent. What's up with that?? Oh wait, I know...this is the ODD rearing it's ugly head. Sometimes I forget. He doesn't think he's actually a child, he just plays one on the television show that is our life.
So, anyway... See ya, going out to find my friends!
Oh no you're not. Your room is a toxic waste dump. You're not going anywhere until it's clean.
Naturally, he decides that now it's time for snack #2. I assure him it's not. He responds by totally ignoring me and rummaging in the fridge some more. Am I on mute over here??
Room cleaning commences. I make a grocery list and get ready to go to the store. The doorbell rings intermittently; the neighbor children find it hard to accept that my children are on lockdown.
I'm about to leave, when I realize that there is a spare child in the house. It seems the girl child has smuggled a friend in, after all, and they've been happily playing in her room. Consequently, my daughter earns a grounding for tomorrow.
Neighbor child is evicted, and I'm ready to head for the grocery store. First, though, I lock down all the televisions in the house. No TV while I'm gone! Room cleaning time! Also, the children are duly warned that if there is any fighting while I'm gone, they're grounded next week: no playtime with friends.
Just as I'm ready to walk out of the door, the boy child picks up the tiny chihuahua, Choo Choo, fumbles him (as the dog flails to get out of the boy's clutches), and the dog's head slams into the kitchen counter. Hard. He falls to the ground, but he gets up. Not dead, good. Of course, now I have to stop and harangue the child for his mistreatment of the dog.
And, I'm off. I make it all the way to the entrance of the subdivision before I realize I don't have my purse. I run back to the house, where I find the girl child donning her roller skates (inexplicably) and the boy child locked in my master bathroom doing God knows what. I kick him out of my bathroom, lock my bedroom door, and leave again.
First stop, dry cleaners...pick up The Hubs' clothes, get back in the car, and the phone rings.
Mom, Choo Choo threw up. Do I have to clean it up or does Grace?
Great. The dog has a concussion or something.
You do, you're the one that gave him a head injury.
Okay, bye! [hangs up]
I pull into the grocery store parking lot. I get another phone call.
Mom, why do I have to clean it up, he's the one that hurt the dog! That's what made him throw up! That's not fair! He should--
Yes, yes, I told him to do it.
He's a liar! [hangs up]
I pull into a spot and sit there for a moment, trying to Google canine head injuries. Stupid internet won't work. I get another call, though.
*hysterical girl child sobbing* Mom, I went to [unintelligible] and he [unintelligible] and all I said was [unintelligible]-- *more sobbing*
I can't understand you. Are you dying? Are you missing a limb? Should I call an ambulance?
I went to tell him to clean up the mess and I all I said was 'Mom said for you to do it,' and he threw a stick and hit me in the heeeaaaaadddddddd *wail gulp sob*
I'm coming home. [I hang up this time.]
I head back home, sans groceries. At least I got the dry cleaning, so the trip wasn't totally wasted.
Back at home, I find him jamming out to music in his floor, wallowing in mess instead of doing away with it. He had no idea I was on my way home. Who knew she could keep her mouth shut that long?
I didn't mean to hurt her!
Um-hmm. Go clean up the dog puke.
He goes. She follows and heckles him. (One of her nicknames is Peanut Gallery; this is a common bad habit.) He throws the vomit at her. She screams and slaps him, and he pushes her back. She collides with a door, aaaaaand it's official. My children are deranged lunatics.
I come unglued a little. I'm not gonna lie. Screaming commences. I take their phones away and let them know they're now grounded for two weeks.
Girl child vigorously protests. Boy child tells her to get over it; Mom means business now. It won't do any good. I will say this about the boy: He knows when it's punishment time, and he knows not to argue. Much. Not her, though...
I don't care! I'm not doing it! I hate this! This is stupid! You took away my TV, you took away my phone! Net Nanny shut off my stupid internet--
You want me to take your computer away? I can take that away, too.
I don't care! It's stupid and slow! I'M NOT CLEANING MY ROOM!
Clean, or go to bed. Your choice.
Fine, I can do that! GLADLY! GOODNIGHT!! [slam]
And she did. There is a God.
The boy thinks we're best friends now.
We're not friends yet. Still trying not to kill you. Go away so I don't have to look at you and my anger might fade.
People that will need therapy just as much as their mother does, I'm sure.