The more things change, the more they stay the same. Only in more daunting circumstances.
Exhibit A: Sasquatch has a new obsession. He wants to go to the High School all the way across town instead of the one five blocks from our house. He has a lot of reasons for this, and while my heart understands his reasons, my gut is sending off alarm bells. The kid who can't get up until fifteen minutes before the final bell in the morning is promising me that he will ride two cross town buses (each way) that will force him to leave the house at zero dark thirty. And that he'll do it without expecting me to drive him, because I've already told him I won't. He is so sure of this move that he's promising me the moon to get me to say yes. I don't want the moon. I want him to trial ride the bus at the time he'll have to for school and to write me out a contract that spells out exactly what he will do during the school year. I might as well ask for the moon.
Exhibit B: All of my kids seem to have the idea that if I get further than five feet in the door from work before they hit me up for something, they're dropping the ball. I don't want to say that they lie in wait for me, but very often I haven't even put my keys down and there's a line of people who all need me to do something "urgent" for them immediately.
Exhibit C: Work has been brutal lately. I haven't lost butt parts because I've done anything wrong, but simply because it has been absolute insanity from the second I've hit the door until the minute I crawl out to my car. I've been in Triage a lot lately, which will take the starch out of anyone. ("What's going on with you?" "My knee hurts" "How long has it been hurting?" " Six months" "Is the pain getting worse?" "No" "Is there some particular reason you came to the ED tonight when your knee has been hurting for six months?" "Well, there's nothing good on TV tonight").
Exhibit D: Sasquatch can still pull my chain faster than any human being alive.
Scene of the Crime: I walked in the door Monday night to Sasquatch following me around obsessively about the new school. He had not done a single thing I'd asked him to do about it, opting instead for a sleepover. Surfer Dude and Gumby got brought home by their dad from their weekend with him, and I asked him to come in because he needs to be up to date on this whole school thing. Sasquatch, deflecting as usual, said my stipulations were "stupid" and "ridiculous". I lost my temper, which ended with him stomping out of the house and SD screaming at me and their father (who has the same problem with Sasquatch that I do) looking at me as if I'd lost my mind. All I wanted was to come home and collapse, and what I got was a fifteen minute brawl and an hour of damage control. By the time we were all good with each other, I was too wired to collapse.
To the Jury: I sat the kids down and said Listen. Listen very carefully. You have to cut me some slack. I know you only see me as She Who Provides Cash, Food and Rides, but you have to understand that I'm tired. A lot has changed lately. I'm working full time. I'm taking care of everything in the house all by myself, and the only time any of you "remember" your chores is when I make a fuss about them. I'm tired of being met at the door with a list of demands, and while I'm at it, stop calling me at work to ask if you can order food in and have me pay for it because, after a $150 grocery shop there's "nothing good to eat in the house". Don't call me at 3:30 pm from a sleepover and tell me you just woke up, when I'm at work with a paranoid schizophrenic who is absolutely convinced he has an air bubble in his sinuses that is talking to him. Don't automatically assume I'm at fault when Sasquatch pushes all of my buttons for sport. And dont' think that there's a person in the world who will take it positively when someone tells them their wishes are stupid or ridiculous. I repeat. Cut. Me. Some. Slack. I. Am. Not. Superwoman.
The verdict: The jury is still out. But tomorrow we'll hear their decision. I hope I can live with it.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Posted by the rotten correspondent at 12:02 AM