The people I live with are conspiring against my well-being, against my peace, my happiness, and even my general health. It is the only explanation I can manage.
Let me back up a bit. And I will begin with the victories, lest you think it is all despair.
The twelve-year-old loves his school. Or rather, he likes it moderately, which is the same thing as love on his part.
The first week he came home from school and was excited to tell us all about it. This has never happened before. He was working on a project, something involving the extinction of the dinosaurs. He would come home every day and work on his project without being told to. Voluntarily. I could only surmise that the school was some sort of cult and that our child has fallen under their spell, but I honestly do not give a fuck. If they have some strange magic that makes him voluntarily do homework, I don't care if they're the Reverend Sun Yung Moon and L. Ron Hubbard mixed into one.
On the following Sunday, he announces that he has finished his project. Early.
I think I just held a blanket and wept soft tears of relief and joy for a couple of hours.
This joy was short-lived, however, when I discovered I had fucked up.
It began with an off-handed comment from the 12-year-old about being late for school. "You aren't late for school. We're like twenty minutes early every day." He really has no concept of time.
I mention this to the Goddess. "What time are you getting there?"
"About 8:10," I say proudly.
"Yeah, his classes start at 8:00."
Fuck. Me.
I don't know how I have missed this. I am an ass.
Also, that means I've got to get everyone ready a half-hour earlier. That's okay. I've got this.
On Wednesday, there is a parent meeting at the school. I really want to go, meet his teachers, and especially learn about his upcoming three-day field trip. They're going to a nature conservancy, talking about the natural world, hiking, all that jazz. Unfortunately, both of us can't go and besides that, his bio-dad decides he wants to be there. (We don't really co-attend events.)
On Friday comes a bombshell. We get a message from his teachers: the twelve-year-old has been skipping homework.
What? How can this be? What about the project? I thought we had this figured out.
We didn't know he had homework. He claims he didn't know it was homework, which is bullshit.
He sits at the dining room table on Friday night, finishing his work.
Friday night also featured a meltdown by the Goddess. She's deep into her teaching gig now and I am certain she's doing well. She talks about a few classes she struggles with. She sees 300 students a week for forty minutes each. It is very difficult to establish a classroom environment in that time and many of her students come from very troubled homes.
She got an email from her supervisor telling her she was doing a good job, but also including some constructive criticism.
I love my wife, but taking things in stride is not really her strong suit.
"I'm awful. I suck. I'm going to quit." She screams. She cries. She crawls into bed.
"I'm sure you're not awful. And you can't quit. I don't make enough money for you to quit, even if you completely suck." As I have previously mentioned, I am not noted for my sensitivity.
This breaks into a very predictable fight which ruins an otherwise lovely Friday night at home.
The first of this week started well. The twelve-year-old is off to his field trip and we are getting into a bit of a routine with the others. I'm still struggling to get them all out the door on time, but with one less child, it seems more manageable.
Wednesday is my day off and I'm pretty excited. I haven't had a break in a few weeks. I've had gigs on weekends and worked more hours this pay period than I ever have. I haven't seen much of the kids, but I'm pretty proud of the paycheck I brought home.
On Tuesday, the Ape is sick. The Goddess takes him to the doctor. She messages me at work. Hand-foot-and-mouth disease. Didn't he have that two weeks ago? Apparently not. That was some other kind of rash.
Fuck.
I get home late on Tuesday. Everyone is already in bed. The house is completely destroyed. There are wet diapers in the floor. The place is littered with Thomas the Tank Engine and Sponge Bob toys. A towel covers a wet spot on the rug where someone either peed or spilled juice. Crackers and bits of food cover everything.
So on my day off, I stay home with the Ape and the Goddess. We get up and clean the house for about four hours, alternately trying to entertain a grumpy baby.
I go out and get some cash from the ATM. There must be something wrong. There isn't much left in our account. That fat check that was deposited on Monday has nearly disappeared. There isn't enough to cover the mortgage, which is due on Friday.
Fuuuuuuck.
I make dinner. Tacos.
"What's in these?" the seven-year-old asks.
"The normal. Beef, beans."
"Yuck. I hate beans."
"You eat beans in tacos every week."
"No I don't."
"Yes, you do."
She does that thing where she puts the taco on the tip of her tongue, pretending to taste it. "Icccckkk! It tastes HORRIBLE! You are trying to starve me to death." I grab a piece of bologna and white bread and slam it on the table in front of her.
The twelve-year-old arrives home from his field trip.
"How was it?" I ask excitedly, hoping to be regaled with how much fun he had and how much he learned.
"It was awful," he says. "It was pretty much the worst field trip ever. We had to answer questions before they'd give us a s'more!" he adds indignantly. Then he tells his mom he needs to get the new bey-blades that come out next Friday. I tell him he should put them on his Christmas list. He says he must get them that day so he can do an unboxing video on his YouTube channel. He starts crying.
I hate these people.
The next morning is miserable. I've slept uncomfortably, mostly due to the fact that we are co-sleeping with the Monkey (seemed like a good idea at the time), who gradually forces me to the edge of the bed all night. My body is sore and I've gotten little sleep. The Monkey and Ape both scream bloody murder when we give them chocolate milk to drink, like we poured gasoline in their sippy cups. The twelve-year-old is running 20 minutes late, which means the rest of us are running late, too.
The Monkey refuses to go into his daycare. First, he stalls in the parking lot, kicking and screaming. I'm dragging him in, so I expect a visit from CPS any time. The he lays in the floor and I have to carry him in a ball to his room. He looks at me with complete contempt.
I drop the twelve-year-old at school -- 20 minutes late -- and the teacher who greets our car looks at me with pity, the sort of expression you reserve for parents who don't bathe their children.
Miserably long day at work. I practically drop into bed when I get home at 10:00.
I got up earlier this morning. I thought I'd head off any potential problems.
The Goddess gets the twelve-year-old up earlier, so he won't be late for school.
I go to walk the seven-year-old to the bus. She is doing homework.
"Let's go," I say. "You're going to be late."
"Ughhhh! I have to do my homework!"
"You should have done it last night."
I walk her to her stop. She's weeping. Great.
I go to dress Monkey and Ape. Both of them emit tortuous screams when I try to dress them. If our neighbors can hear it, I'm sure they assume I beat my children. It is literally the most difficult task in my current routine. It takes all of 20 minutes to put a shirt, pants, and shoes on each of them. They both cry literally all morning, crying for their mommy.
I shout at the twelve-year-old. "We're leaving!"
"I'm still getting ready!"
We wait.
Finally all the boys are in the car. We're running about 8 minutes behind.
"I didn't get to eat breakfast," the twelve-year-old says.
"Not my fault," I say. "Why didn't you eat?"
"Because you were rushing me!" he screams.
"We're running late," I say. "You can't just be late for school every day."
"It's not my fault."
"Then we'll get you up earlier."
"No!"
"Then you can take you shower at night."
"No!!"
He sulks the rest of the drive to school. We get there a few minutes after his classes have started.
I'm really tired. I'm working 12-14 hour days on a regular basis. My body is aching and I have weird physical things happening all the time: sore muscles, scratchy throat, headaches.
I'm broke. Despite one of the biggest paychecks I've ever gotten in my career, we don't have enough money to pay the mortgage on time. (Please don't send money. The Goddess gets paid next week. We'll just be making a late payment.)
My wife is miserable. I suspect she resents my inability to make more money and, conversely, the fact that I'm never home to help with the kids.
My kids resent me. The twelve-year-old resents that I can't buy him everything he wants. The seven-year-old thinks I'm cruel for making her shitty food and forcing her to get to the bus on time. And the Monkey and Ape hate me for putting clothes on them.
I feel defeated.
I feel like I never see my family, and when I do, it's these sorts of tense interactions.
And, paradoxically, I want a break from them.
I love my family. I really, really do.
But it's just so fucking hard sometimes. I feel like a stranger around them these days.
You're not supposed to admit these things. You aren't supposed to admit parental failure unless it's just something cute. You aren't supposed to say that even though you really, really love them you feel like you are going to completely lose your shit on them at any moment and scream, "Why are you trying to ruin my fucking life?!"
But today is Friday. It's not the end of the work week for me, but at least it's the end of the school week. It's Labor Day weekend and they're visiting bio-dad and Granny S this for a couple of nights.
Maybe we can all recharge our batteries. Maybe next week will be better.
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