And yet beating children is frowned upon for some strange reason.
Okay here's what happened:
The plague has hit my house and I'm up to my armpits in sick people. And then the washing machine broke again. And it's January. Despite the fact that I'm wrapped in the pillowy cushion of Wellbutrin, watching the alcohol intake and getting regular exercise, the Winter Depression Vulture is no longer idly circling but perched on my shoulders and licking its chops, the presumptuous bastard.
Yesterday I'd finished tearing apart the washing machine (broken motor coupler, this time: parts on order) and realized it was getting late. I asked Anna, who has been home from school with a cold but who was obviously feeling better, to unload and reload the dishwasher as I needed room to make dinner. Well, she put it off until I asked her twice more and then left a bunch of odd-sized dishes--serving bowl, platter, etc.--she didn't quite know what to do with on the table. Meanwhile, Mia was getting sicker by the hour and there was no cold medicine left in the entire house because for their bout with the cold, Anna and Gabby had already cleaned out the entire stash. I threw dinner in the oven (home-made chicken pot pies: the ultimate in comfort food, even though I cheated and used store-bought crusts) in the oven, grabbed my outdoor gear, told Anna where to put the odd-sized clean dishes she'd left out and asked her to get out plates for her sisters to set table while I ran to the store.
I was out in the garage with Claire, feeling for the car in the dark (for some reason the lights in there don't work despite having changed out the light switch--I'm guessing the mice chewed the wiring, which would explain the horrible smell in the coat closet: electrocuted mouse) when I heard an ungodly crash. I ran into the house to find broken crockery everywhere.
Anna, probably feeling put upon for being asked to do her normal everyday chore that I pay her 6 bucks a week for, wasn't very careful about picking up my Wedding-Gift-Cobalt-Fiesta-Ware-Covered-Serving-Bowl to put the serving platter away. The lid fell off and hit the counter and shattered my favorite mug, a souvenir from Marie Laveau's House of Voodoo with ranks of pinned voodoo dolls on it. My best friend Barb sent it to me long ago, which is sentimental value enough, but it happened to arrive at a perfect moment when I was ready to run away and become a crazy bag lady. I'm pretty sure that was the only reason why I didn't just start walking to Florida with the contents of my liquor cabinet in a shopping cart and entire wardobe on my back that day.
I'm not too attatched to most of my stuff, really. The few things I do care about, I usually keep out of harm's way, for the children are nightmare roommates. Because I was in a hurry, though, this one time, Anna wiped out a couple of my favorites in one thoughtless second.
It's all my fault, really. But still.
So a good crying jag and a big glass of Templeton Rye (thank you Joe and Danelle!) last night and I'm mostly over it today.
I'm still plotting revenge, though. Oh it won't be mean and only just a little spiteful: remember how you always hated your parents for waking you up before 10:00 on the weekends when you were a teenager? How you thought they were being completely unreasonable for not letting you sleep until 2? I always said I would never do that to my teenage kids because I remember the unfairness of it all. Well, their asses are up and at 'em now.
The plague has hit my house and I'm up to my armpits in sick people. And then the washing machine broke again. And it's January. Despite the fact that I'm wrapped in the pillowy cushion of Wellbutrin, watching the alcohol intake and getting regular exercise, the Winter Depression Vulture is no longer idly circling but perched on my shoulders and licking its chops, the presumptuous bastard.
Yesterday I'd finished tearing apart the washing machine (broken motor coupler, this time: parts on order) and realized it was getting late. I asked Anna, who has been home from school with a cold but who was obviously feeling better, to unload and reload the dishwasher as I needed room to make dinner. Well, she put it off until I asked her twice more and then left a bunch of odd-sized dishes--serving bowl, platter, etc.--she didn't quite know what to do with on the table. Meanwhile, Mia was getting sicker by the hour and there was no cold medicine left in the entire house because for their bout with the cold, Anna and Gabby had already cleaned out the entire stash. I threw dinner in the oven (home-made chicken pot pies: the ultimate in comfort food, even though I cheated and used store-bought crusts) in the oven, grabbed my outdoor gear, told Anna where to put the odd-sized clean dishes she'd left out and asked her to get out plates for her sisters to set table while I ran to the store.
I was out in the garage with Claire, feeling for the car in the dark (for some reason the lights in there don't work despite having changed out the light switch--I'm guessing the mice chewed the wiring, which would explain the horrible smell in the coat closet: electrocuted mouse) when I heard an ungodly crash. I ran into the house to find broken crockery everywhere.
Anna, probably feeling put upon for being asked to do her normal everyday chore that I pay her 6 bucks a week for, wasn't very careful about picking up my Wedding-Gift-Cobalt-Fiesta-Ware-Covered-Serving-Bowl to put the serving platter away. The lid fell off and hit the counter and shattered my favorite mug, a souvenir from Marie Laveau's House of Voodoo with ranks of pinned voodoo dolls on it. My best friend Barb sent it to me long ago, which is sentimental value enough, but it happened to arrive at a perfect moment when I was ready to run away and become a crazy bag lady. I'm pretty sure that was the only reason why I didn't just start walking to Florida with the contents of my liquor cabinet in a shopping cart and entire wardobe on my back that day.
I'm not too attatched to most of my stuff, really. The few things I do care about, I usually keep out of harm's way, for the children are nightmare roommates. Because I was in a hurry, though, this one time, Anna wiped out a couple of my favorites in one thoughtless second.
It's all my fault, really. But still.
So a good crying jag and a big glass of Templeton Rye (thank you Joe and Danelle!) last night and I'm mostly over it today.
I'm still plotting revenge, though. Oh it won't be mean and only just a little spiteful: remember how you always hated your parents for waking you up before 10:00 on the weekends when you were a teenager? How you thought they were being completely unreasonable for not letting you sleep until 2? I always said I would never do that to my teenage kids because I remember the unfairness of it all. Well, their asses are up and at 'em now.