Since I can’t seem to learn how to fart bullets – I’m going to type in bullets.
• Want to know what I’ve eaten for breakfast for the last three days? Would you also like to know whose fault it is? I shall tell you. Twix. Yup – the crunchy, caramel-y, ooey-gooey candy bar chock full of calories – for breakfast. And it’s Rambo’s fault. He thinks he’s some kind of super husband or something – wherein – almost daily he does something or brings me something home as a surprise. God love him right? Sure. Except when it’s a mother-f*cking candy bar – or 6 of them.
• Also – I thought I should let you know that my pee is neon and glow in the dark yellow. Because of the copius amounts of Mountain Dew I drink to wash down my Twix.
• I have adopted the government’s controversical “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy when it comes to Rambo and his prisoner armed escorts. It works quite well. He escorted some dangerous criminal somewhere yesterday with someone in some vehicle. I have no other info…because I didn’t ask – and I asked him not to tell me. Ignorance is some serious bliss people.
• Also – yesterday after the Twix and Mountain Dew – for lunch I ate a burger the size of Sheniqa’s ass. Followed by homemade fried chips. And just in case you’d like to throw something at me and hate the ground I walk on and the air I breathe – I’m still down 8 pounds. Fear not – tomorrow – I shall be up 10 pounds.
• I am taking applications for people who would like to do my hair each morning. It is lame and boring and takes too much time and makes me want to stomp on small bunnies and throw frogs at mirrors until they make a nasty “splat” sound like some born to be serial killer would do. Honestly – curling every single piece is almost worse than sticking pins in my own eyes. I mean – if in the end I turned out looking like some kind of supermodel – well then – I’d quit bitching…but that is not the case.
• Last night being the gourmet chef Betty Crocker kind of mother that I am – I chose to deep fry some chicken fries for my girls. Have you guys seen these things? They are fries with chicken in the middle. F*cking brilliant.
Anywhoozle – my oldest seriously throws a fit – she doesn’t want chicken. She would like us to order out pizza. I figure two can play this dramatic game so I say, “Would you like us to order pizza or make the mortgage payment? Would you like us to order pizza or get you school clothes?”
Little exaggeration there but still. EVERY night the girl wants to order out. She cries. She yells. She says she hates living here. Noone wants her. On and on we go.
I feel like a knife is stuck in my chest because I remember feeling that way as a child and I remember swearing I’d never make my kids feel the same way.
I tell Rambo I got this but not before he makes it very clear to her she is never to raise her voice to me – ever.
And then? I get an email from her. The subject line says, “I want to move out.”
The body says: I am not wanted here. You don’t have time for me. You don’t buy me snacks. You don’t hug me immediately. You go on your computer. You yell. I want to move in with my sitters. What do you think?
Well Holy Mother of Peter, John and Bart. I’ll tell you what I think.
My first thought is I’m a failure. I’m not breaking any cycles. I want to move out with you.
My second thought is OMG – this is because you have to eat chicken fries!!!!!!!!!!! Instead of take out pizza?????????
Did I raise you? Are you mine? Did my loins produce you?
You bet your ass I’m on the computer – I work three jobs and so does your Dad – to pay for the TV and computer and new room you just got. And your new school clothes and those 5 sports you’re in. Oh and remember fair night? And mini-vacations we take? And weekends at Jenny’s? And? And? And?
Please go live there. Because they buy you snacks.
And the reason they don’t yell? I guarantee you is only because you don’t live there. Give them a week or two and they’ll start yelling. They also aren’t on the computer all the time because they don’t have to work 3 jobs because they don’t have to support you. They just need enough money to buy you snacks.
Someone stab me in the heart – I think it would have hurt less.
You can all tell me I’m doing the best I can – but the ache that email produced – will never ever go away. Even if it’s from a 10 year old who is mad about pizza. Even if I spent the rest of the night cuddled on the couch with her watching her favorite show.
Even if 10 minutes later she was happily eating an egg I made just for her …I won’t forget what she felt in that moment. And the fact that I caused those feelings.
One little email – from a 10 year old – and I find myself questioning everything I am, my choices, where I’m going and what I’m becoming.
It feels like that whole one step forward – two steps back kind of thing.
Oh and FYI – I did email her back and I did point out the events and items she conveniently forgets and I did say many times she is loved and wanted. I suppose I should be thankful she said anything to me – I never even spoke to mine.
• Lastly – I’m tired. Exhausted really. Dealing with a bit of insomnia. The fact is I’ve never slept well from the moment I married Rambo. He was over the road in a semi so I was alone or on third shift at the prison so I was alone with two baby girls….which meant I was always on alert and never sleeping. And I’m a worrier. My mind races. I can’t stop making lists and thinking and am even plagued by nightmares. And lately – I haven’t been sleeping which makes everything seem 50x worse than it is.
I guess it’s a poopy woopy day here. (For those of you about to tell me it could be that I’m shoving too many Twix and too much Mt. Dew into my body and that can’t be helping – um – please just shut up mmkkaayy?)
Ima go see if I can find Sunshine Care Bear and see if he’ll squeeze the shit out of me with a good ol fashioned bear hug…that oughta help right?
I mean if you get hugged by a Care Bear and you’re still grumpy – then you might as well just give up.