This week has been a bit of a fucked up week.
We got some bad news, I over drew my bank account, my house smells like chickens live in it because chickens are living in it, and looks like someone burgled it, only someone didn’t burgle it.
I hate it when people see my mess, it makes me uncomfortable and moody and unsettled. Everyone has mess right? Every one’s house at some point looks like it has been burgled when it hasn’t? Everyone’s toilet has SEVEN empty toilet rolls on the floor right? Everyone finds crunched up chip wrappers scrunched beneath the lounge cushions with toast crusts and loom bands right?
Sometimes I clean these with a sigh and an eye roll and an empty threat that there will be NO MORE EATING ON THE LOUNGE, and some days, every crumb feels like a personal slight against me. I yell and I stomp and I throw things back into their rightful place with more force than was actually needed. I feel cheated and unappreciated and like I am failing at keeping everyone personably accountable. Like I am failing at making my kids productive members of society.
The teen came home in a foul one, all mood, anger, attitude and teen angst, peering daggers at everyone from behind his hair veranda. Turns out that there were a few assholes who he thought were friends were actually laughing at him behind his back.
You know, asking him serious questions about something he is passionate about, feigning interest when he answered and then laughing at him when he walked away. He found out that they were laughing at him when they gave up waiting till he walked away and just laughed right there in his little face.
Fuck those asshole kids, I know they are kids but it makes me want to push them over. I want to walk up to them and punch them in their asshole nose. Really. I want to.
How fucked up is that? I’m a grown ass woman, but if I could get away with it I would push them over so hard. I would straight arm them right in the chest and I would tread on their fingers as I stepped over them.
Having kids will do that to you. That instinct to keep them safe from all the dickheads will make you want to push other people’s children over and step on their fingers and hope that their hands are cold so it hurts more.
Then the mothers of those children will want to push me over and step on my fingers and that is how wars start.
The teen told me that he couldn’t wait to leave high school, when everyone is grown up and no one does stuff like that anymore.
Oh man, I laughed SO HARD. I had to break his heart and tell him that assholes don’t stop when you leave high school. Assholes are everywhere. It seems worse when you are at high school because everything is amplified. You are forced to be in the same environment constantly, and everything is so very public and unpredictable.
I shared with him that fully grown assholes do that all the time. They feign being nice, sometimes overly nice, then you inevitably find out that those nice words are actually just a secret code for fuck you and it stays a huge secret, and you don’t know till someone tells you. Someone will always tell you.
Then when you find out its crushing and you feel like a fuckwitt.
He told me he felt like a fuckwitt and asked me what I did to those people.
I told him that I smiled at them. I smiled and waved and was pleasant, they don’t even know that I know, because fuck them. Who cares?
Now when it happens, I don’t feel like a fuckwitt. I find it amusing. That’s what changes when you leave high school. The assholes stay the same, you just give less fucks.
We spent an hour feeling sad and sorry for ourselves, feeling like two fifteen year olds eating lunch by ourselves and then we went out the back and kicked stuff, and hid while we ate Kit Kats because there weren’t enough for everybody.
I have the two other kids home today because some kids are just shit sleepers. They are shit sleepers when you bring them home from the hospital and everyone tells you that it will get better only it doesn’t and even when they are ten they will still be shit sleepers, and they still keep everyone awake and then in the morning everything feels like it’s worse than it is, and then the kid wont stop crying and between the sobs he tells you that he is not trying to make you angry and you feel like the shittest person to have ever been made a parent, So you just say fuck it, I give in to the universe today, you sit on the lounge and just cuddle your kids and then go get KFC for lunch.
So the whole week felt less like a failure, I decided that while the youngest one was at home, we would clean out her toy boxes. The kid has sixteen Barbies. She doesn’t even play with them, I reckon it’s because she has sixteen. Sixteen is too many.
When I was a kid, the Hippies FINALLY gave in and let my sister and I get a Barbie set each. I got the Heart family. Remember them?
We had one set each and we played with them ALL. THE. TIME, because we knew what it was like to have no Barbies. Sometimes I feel like I am not doing right by my little girl, to not let her experience what it’s like to have no Barbies.
My sister and I played with those Barbies till The heart family Ken’s legs snapped off. Once Kens legs came off there was no getting them back on. Dad couldn’t even do it, so we sewed cushion stuffing into his long pants and gave him prosthetic legs.
Good old legless Ken served us another few years before my Aunty bought us another Ken. ROLLERBLADING Ken, he was new and improved and blonde. His painted face was not all chipped and faded and he had legs.
My sister and I buried the old Ken in the garden. We gave him a funeral and everything. He had been replaced.
A few months later we got a skipper to add to our collection. Skipper always annoyed me because her neck was too short and the clothes would get stuck trying to get them on. I didn’t hate her enough to not give her a partner, so my sister and I dug up old legless Ken, gave him a bath, sewed him some new pants and gave them the wedding of all weddings, complete with a jazzercise class at their wedding reception, with music blaring from the twin tape deck.
Some weeks end, and I feel like old legless Ken, dug up and dirty with a chipped painted face.
This was one of those weeks.
Next week will be better, and shit could definitely be worse, I know that, but if this week could kindly fuck off now, that would be great.
As I write that, Cabbage just texted to declare that he thinks this week deserves a drink, and he will bring something home with some chocolate and perhaps some cheese and biscuits, I should chill the glasses.
Things are looking up already.
Have a smashing weekend. Xx