We've just gone another nine rounds, me and Sasquatch. Nine rounds of the same old shit, nine rounds of everything I do that is wrong and everything he does that is just a rational response to his crazy, melodramatic mother. The irony of him being downstairs bellowing "Oh, my god. OH, MY GOD could you be any more melodramatic?" is completely lost on him, as it usually is.
And what has prompted this? The attempts on my part to lay down some firm lines in terms of me not doing virtually everything around here. The two younger ones get it. But not my eldest. Not by a long shot. The palm that is extended for entertainment money is curiously unable to do any work for it. The mouth that inhales every speck of food I cook is curiously unable to say anything to me that is not hateful and cruel. The child who compulsively says he loves me every time he leaves my side is curiously unable to do a damned thing to prove it. Everything that is important to me is mocked, everything I do is taken for granted, everything I say is twisted until I don't even recognize it anymore. By the time we finish one of these arguments, he has me really believing that I'm as awful a person as he says I am. I don't know how much longer I can do this.
The fact that the two younger ones get it doesn't mean they actually do anything about it. It just means that they feel a little guilty that they're not doing anything about it. I've collared each of them individually and told them all to set aside some time on Saturday for a good, old-fashioned family meeting. Things cannot continue the way they are around here.
I think I'm about to go on strike.