Wednesday Night

How supremely stupid. I genuinely believed I could do it. I let myself buy into it. Are you dumb? Clearly. You have kids, dipshit. You asked for this. You want to be a writer, Bill Shakespeare? An artist? I can’t decide if I should be laughing or crying. Maybe laughing so hard I cry. How in God’s name did you get talked into the idea that you could “have it all?” You had four hours tonight and what do you have to show for it? You microwaved dinner and took a load of laundry out of the dryer. Didn’t even fold it. 

Maybe I should let it go. But I can’t. I wonder if this is what heartbreak feels like. I can't say I’ve experienced it before. After 42 years. Fucking snowflake. Wipe your tears, you self- absorbed bitch.

The teenager is sobbing. Completely spiraling. Tests and friends and her insufferable brother and parents who don’t have a clue. We’re screaming. The neighbors can hear, I’m sure. They already think we’re trash, so let them. She’s grasping for things to deepen the whirlpool. I see this, but she does not.

Now she’s over it. Chatty. My best friend. Am I supposed to tell her to go away so I can write for an hour? Or course not. I forgive myself for believing that my art comes last. The fuck I do. I have a teenager, bitch, I’m in battle. My flowery prose will always come last. There goes 80 minutes.

The youngest is peacocking. Masculine energy in the hands of a baby. He tries to dominate with words. “Yes, and?” he says, with the poise of a grown ass adult. Eye contact. My own expression on his supremely slappable face. Gross.

He does not get slapped, because we know better. But dammit do I want to. Which is better, raising kids spared the trauma of violence? Or raising kids who know their place? Which is worse, raising kids who question their safety in the presence of their primary caregivers? Or raising entitled assholes who can’t think beyond their own nose?

I send him to his room, because I am a pussy, and there goes another 20 minutes. 

Dumb. You had kids. You asked for this. You’re going to bring kids into your life and then tell them they’re low on your priority list? So you can write words? Ok, Steinbeck, calm down.

Middle is uncharacteristically ideal. A perfect gentleman. Supportive as he watches you wage war with his siblings. He wants you to see it. He wants you to sit with him. He just wants your attention. Just come sit. Pretend to give a shit about the things that excite him. Just come sit. He loves you. You’re a great mom. Just come sit. Neurodivergence, mood disorders, wild mood swings at rest for the night. The other two can wreak the havoc. Come sit, mom. There’s an hour.

And you want to, what? Write? Fuck you. 

Doctor’s appointments this morning needed follow- up. Call three schools. Schedule 2 follow- up appointments, wait on hold for 15 minutes for each. Track down old medical records and fight with the app to upload them. Record at least 3 OTC meds the doc suggests. Oh, you spent 2 hours fighting with a website to fill out 3 pre- appointment questionnaires? Cool. You’re going to do it again on paper while you wait 45 minutes for the doctor to make an appearance. Congrats, you useless bitch, not a single one of these chores were completed. Tell me more about how you microwaved leftover drumsticks for dinner? You got your healthy kids to a doctor, and that's it. Nothing more. None of that other stuff. Gold star, dipshit.