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    Tuesday, June 10, 2008

    Is the Party Over?

    Has the moment come, the moment when I say to myself, "Self - nobody's having fun around here, so it's time for a change."? Maybe so.

    Greg's job is stressing him out, and he works tons of overtime (mostly b/c the money makes our way of life possible, and because he's a hard worker). Then he has to come home to more stress from his loving family. I am at my wits' end. The kids, I'm sure, are sick of getting yelled at, and god knows I am sick of yelling.

    The kids are apparently bored with every toy they own, because unless I am sitting on the floor playing with them, they are only interested in the following items:

    • my make-up and hair acoutroments
    • the dogs, who they love to "LOVE" on by laying on top of them until they run away
    • kitchen utensils and dog water...together
    • toilet accessories of any kind
    • items of a toxic nature if Jackson the wonder-lock-picker can get to them, while she cheers on
    • my books
    • my clothes
    • Greg's clothes
    • Greg's video games

    The only item of theirs that they ARE interested in is crayons. But they aren't interested in writing on any paper (unless it's my form I need to send in to whereever), no no - just the walls and doors, thankyouverymuch.

    And for the second day in a row, Miss Big Girl has opened the front door and let her and Mr Little Boy out front - where they are free to get run over at any given point, or be kidnapped or bitten by rabid dogs out running around the neighborhood. Yesterday, when I gave her the verbal thrashing she deserved and explained exactly what would happen to her brother if he ran out into the street, she assured me she would "never ever ever ever ever" do it again. Apparently that "never-ever" warranty expired at midnight because she did the same fucking thing today. That's what I get for trying to do laundry for 2 minutes.

    So maybe it's time. Maybe it's time to give up the fairy tale that this is what's best for them. Unless I spend 100% of my time with them, they are into trouble and we all end up miserable. And that's fine (for me to do nothing but play) except then they are living in a pig-stye, which is not what I want for them either. So if I want a clean house and to be home with my kids, they get yelled at all day, I feel like a bitch all day, and no one's having fun. Gee, that's fucking DANDY, huh?

    Mostly it makes me sad that despite my best efforts, I seem to be raising brats. The don't listen, they don't comprehend, they ignore until I scream; the little one speaks cambodian* but almost no english no matter how much I work with him; the big one has GOT to be up for an academy award by now with all the drama every time she gets reprimanded, and my patience has worn so thin that I feel on the verge of snapping at many points throughout the day. Hey, fun for everyone!

    So the solution might be for them to go to daycare, and for me to go to work. It makes me sick to say that, and maybe it's just the PMS talking here (it better be PMS). I love my kids. I love being with them when they are at their best, and hell, I even love them when they're not at their best, that's what love is. But they seem to have signed a pact with someone who hates me, wherein they have agreed to NEVER be at their best again, and to make me cry on a regular basis.

    So I figure, if I'm gonna be miserable, I might as well be getting paid for it. God knows they'll have more fun in day care than they are having getting into trouble every five minutes here at home.


    *No, not really cambodian, but his version of trying to talk sounds much more like cambodian, with its clicks and weird sounds, than any form of english. I found a speech therapist today who I may take him to since obviously I am incapable of teaching him the simplest of concepts. Great day overall. Yeah.

    2 comments:

    Crazy Momma said...

    Don't get down on yourself. It can get bad some days. You know I didn't even last the full first week I was home with my two. If you need, you have my number you can call and I will cry with you. Trust me you are doing a great job, don't let them ruin your dream.

    Deb said...

    They're four and two. Their brains are barely formed. They know not what they do to their angel mother. Nor will they ever until they have children of their own. But if you go back to work, I may have to go back to work, too, because you are a HUGE chunk of my own sanity. Please don't. I hate work. Forget about them. Do it for me.