So I’m crabby….mainly because last night I got a migraine and migraines make me sad emotionally and fatigued physically from the meds I take to stop it. Add to that it’s the day after my birthday and a bunch of other things I’m about to complain about – and it’s not a good day.Rambo transferred to a new prison. You all know that. With his high level of seniority I was praying he’d stay on first shift. At this point – it’s looking like it’ll be second shift. Just typing that brings tears to my eyes. My girls are going to cry when they figure out what this means. They won’t see their Dad like they do now and that’s something I swore I’d never let happen. It was the story of my life..and I didn’t want it to be the same for my girls.
And then there’s me. Rambo is the person I come home to each night that makes every single day better. I walk into hugs. Laughs. Kisses. A bath before we go to bed. Talking. More hugging. All the things that I’ve come to rely on that make each tough day – not so tough. I don’t know how I’ll handle this. I can’t really even think about it.It is temporary. That’s what I’m hanging on to. Things could change as early as January…and I will remain grateful he has a great job. We are blessed…and I need to stop whining and buck up. He doesn’t need to worry about how his girls will feel. He only needs to know we support him and we can do this.
He doesn’t need me to tell him that I want to fall apart in his arms about this. (dramatic much?) He already knows by looking in my eyes.Secondly – shit on a stick – I can’t find time to clean my damn house. Banana’s birthday is coming. I have to make 2 pans of brownies – in a kitchen where no counterspace is visible because it’s covered in shit. Papers, dishes, more papers, book bags, more shit. Let’s not talk about the bathroom. People are coming over to have cake with us. People. In my house. That could be on an episode of hoarders.
Okay – fine. It’s not that bad but it feels that bad to me. I can’t handle it. I don’t know how to. Last night I literally walked in the door and gathered my board meeting stuff. Rambo pulled in the driveway and literally never even took his uniform off. We went to the board meeting.Rambo surprised me with a cake and candles and the men at the meeting “almost” sang Happy Birthday to me until I told them not to. Lol
We got home. Supper. Mother-effing homework. More mother-effing homework. Deal with both of our other part time jobs for a second. Put shit away.Realize laundry isn’t going to happen. Dishes? Hell no. Sit down and relax? What the hell is that? Work out? Yah – um did you forget the kids still have baths and need about 18 papers signed for school tomorrow? And write a check for lunch money. And a stupid t-shirt and a pizza party.
And plan your kids cake/party. Invite people. Make the f*cking brownies. Oh what? It’s bed time.Jesus.
I can’t do this. Yes – this is ALL self-inflicted. I know this. Please just let me whine until you remind me of that. Sometimes it’s just too much. It just is. I feel like I’m failing – BAD.Which brings me to even more failing. I’m raising jerks. Brats. Selfish hellions.
Rambo was NOT happy my kids didn’t say Happy Birthday to me. They didn’t forget – they knew – they just didn’t say anything. Fine, whatever. That’s really not the point. The point for him to them was “think about someone other than yourself”. He was very disappointed in them and he let them know.He knows the lengths I go to to make their own day/month special. He knows how hard I try. I think – like me – he feels like he’s failing sometimes.
We give them too much. I’m the first to admit that I give them things because as a little girl I had nothing. I was the “poor one”. The one who never had the shoes anyone else did. Who shopped at thrift stores. Blah, blah, blah. It shaped me. It molded me. In a private school filled with kids who had it all – it was torture to be the one who didn’t. No one knew the only reason I was in that private school was because we got grant money. We didn’t pay for it like the others did.I went to a private school – that I didn’t belong in. I never want my kids to feel that or be “that kid”….so I give too much. And they probably feel entitled at this point. They probably expect shit. They don’t know what it’s like to not have things.
And that’s on me and Rambo. It is not the way we want our kids to grow up or be.We have to change things. We’re going to start having discussions about compassion and empathy and how to be grateful and how others don’t have what they have come to expect. We’re going to put verbs in our sentences and do things to help others. If I have to find a soup kitchen and take them there to work – I will.
If I make them use their birthday money to help out a homeless shelter, I will. I will find a way to make them see that giving is the only thing in life that can lift your soul like nothing else.I did this to them and I will help un-do it…before it’s too late. They will know that the only thing I ever want them to end up being before anything else – is KIND. Compassionate. Loving. Unselfish.
This is not the parent I wanted to be. Seven jobs, a hoarder’s kitchen, no time to spare – all excuses. None of which are valid. I’m so angry at myself for allowing this to happen.Yah – they are good kids. Don’t get me wrong. They aren’t monsters but some things need to change.
You want some proof?
This morning I gave the older child a $20 bill – to attend a pizza party and to buy a shirt with her name on it. Neither of those things are a requirement. They are a bonus to her life. They are things that I myself never ever would have been allowed to have or do. There wouldn’t have been a $20 bill available. Period.My kid? Well – she didn’t take the $20 bill. You see – her pizza party cost $4. Her shirt cost $15. I told her to go to the office and ask for change. Not a hard thing to do. One little step to get two things she wants badly.
She doesn’t want to ask for change. That’s just too embarrassing or some damn thing.She left the $20 on the cupboard and was pissed at me. Because in my never-ending day yesterday – I didn’t get the right change. I’m so f*cking sorry.
Oh and by the way Mom – will the new boots you ordered me be in by Thursday so I can wear them to the dance?Dances? New shoes? Pizza parties? Shirts? I could only have dreamed.
And if you think it’s only the old one – you’re wrong. We took the little one out for pizza Saturday. Had a great time. Walked out into the entry way on our way out and there was a gumball machine. I told her I didn’t have a quarter.She said, “Geez Mom. You’re no fun at all.”
Yah. You’re right. I just take you out for pizza and later I’ll take you to a Halloween event. But you’re right. I suck. I should try harder. Man – she’s lucky Rambo didn’t hear her.But yah – it’s my fault. I should then not take her to the next event or I should have shot down her comment. But I didn’t. Because somewhere in my soul – as a mother – I’m too afraid of them feeling like I did as a child. I’m afraid I’m not doing enough. I’m afraid there’s truth in their comebacks that hurt me so deeply.
I’m teaching them to be assholes to me. It has to stop. It just has to.It starts with consequences and more of Rambo and I saying no. And discussions about our expectations as parents. It starts tonight.
I just hope it’s not too late.Please, please if you’re going to comment and rip on me and tell me all the things that I already know I’m doing wrong – just don’t. Until you have a child and her compassion rivals that of Mother Teresa’s….I just can’t hear it today.
Tomorrow feel free to rip on me all you want. I welcome it.Just not today though.
Today I might shank you. Tomorrow I’ll just agree with you.