I just self medicated. With pie.
I have been touched too much for one Monday.
I have heard too many words with a side of whine. I have put out too many fires, saved too many lives. I have invented too much creative fun, redirected too many potential disasters, put on too many tiny clean outfits only to have them smeared with gunk. I have cleaned only to have every room thoroughly wrecked. I have put my wishes for the day patiently on the shelf and met little person needs over and over and over and THEN…
In the space of twenty minutes, both boys pooped and grabbed their butts while I was trying to wipe them. Poop hands. No. Just, no. I'm over it. There are no cares left to give. I don’t want to see any more poop. No more. Forever. Blessed Jesus, savior of the world, my poop quota has been filled. Amen. Do not even bother me with your poop from now on.
And still the hammering on my nerves doesn’t let up. Older son has been banished! Banished, I say! To the bedroom with you! Don’t think I don’t hear you sneaking up and down the hall trying to swipe fruit and yogurt. Deception is your middle name. You are trying to put me in an early grave. When your feet approach the kitchen, I will be standing there with Devil Fire in my eyes.
Meanwhile... on the other side of the street...
The neighbors. The Babymama Drama Crew. Usually one sister or auntie or granny will watch the flock of children while the others are out. There is much spanking, flicking, mocking, much yelling, much cussing. (I will never understand calling a 2 year old a mother fucker. I just won't.) There is no kissing, no playing, no affirming. In traditional Puritan fashion, the children are to be seen and not heard. The adults do their own thing. Smoke their weed. Talk on their phones. Visit with their friends. Watch the cars go by. The kids are clean and dressed and fed. Sometimes they do hair. The end.
But… there is no back sassing. No whining. No tantrums. No crying. No complaining. No disobedience. There are no shenanigans, no screeching, no trouble. Those kids toe the line.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ve gotten my parenting all wrong.
Sometimes I seriously doubt myself. You do everything “right” with your kids and it just makes your life harder. You just get punished for it. You give everything to your kids, the very best you have to give, and they just turn out bratty, take you for all your worth, and leave you crying in the bathroom... with pie.
And that’s where the story ends for now.
My husband has always said he likes how I can take a super dark place and turn it into something positive and up-lifting. It’s good to redeem story… but this is a story that hasn’t run into redemption yet.
I’m just so friggin tired.
I need more pie.