This is why we can’t have nice things. I feel like I am a refugee in my own home. I forget which rooms have carpet sometimes. This is the real. This is raw.
To any outsider looking in, there seem to be only a few basic needs. Parents should have to worry about food, shelter, and no running with scissors right?
What could possibly be the source of stress that makes so many sane adults lose their fucking minds?
What is so different?
I slept very little in college.
I drank way more beer.
I had a lifestyle that would kill me inside of a week these days but somehow it wasn’t quite this bad. I need a therapy flow chart or something. Like most problems, writing helps ferret out the true story. The raw emotion.
Let’s recount some highlights shall we?
A Facebook post on Sunday sets the tone: “I just threw away half of the living room because I stepped on a mustache whistle and lost my shit.”
That was sort of true. I didn’t throw away more than a third of the living room and to be fair most of that was torn bits of paper and a few bills that needed to be paid. The whistle bounced off the kitchen wall after I flung it and defied all physics by landing in a fresh cat hairball. I can’t imagine ever cleaning the whistle enough for my kids to use again so it was trashed.
There was a dried crust from a PB&J mixed in with some clean clothes. Formerly clean clothes. I still don’t know which meal the crust came from because that is all they will eat. I found a spoiled milk sippy cup = minus one sippy cup. Been there and opened that before, no thank you.
But wait! I have more first-world problems. My wallaby won’t quit eating crayons. He loves crayons and crams them down like a kid who found a stash of Snickers at fat camp. And he needs to be neutered. He tried to hump my wife’s head Sunday night. Tonight, he tried to eat an apple core and gagged up kale on my sandals. Did I mention that we have to diaper him? I might kill him tonight. Maybe I’ll beat him to death with the cat. Two birds – one stone.
Monday night I got home from work and the kids had created a surprise for me. I know they are trying to be sweet. I love them so much. They made paper figures of our family and glued them to the wall. It was Elmer’s glue so there is an outside chance that water would have removed the paper but I suppose the children were just impatient so they ripped the figures off the wall which removed paint down to the raw drywall.
Then one of the kids was picking at the crack between two vinyl tiles and managed to hang a fingernail under the edge and tear it. Not the tile. Her fingernail. How do you injure yourself on an obstacle that doesn’t exist? The crack is smaller than a fingernail. What the actual… I can’t deal tonight.
How do you prepare for any of that? It is impossible.
When I see news stories where parents have a nervous breakdown, a little tiny part of me wonders, “What did they step on?” I bet it was a fucking mustache whistle.
No need for concern. I’m in a good, stable state of mind but I do need a drink now that they are all asleep. However, if the dog pukes up her entire bowl of food again because she rushed to eat it before the cat could, I will euthanize her immediately. She is old and on her way out anyway. I have a big cardboard box and I’ll put all three puking pets in the same fucking hole.
*Counting to ten the way the nice lady taught me at the clinic*
Sorry to have such a murdery tone. Now you have seen cranky Underdaddy, raw and unfiltered.