It’s Definitely Not Sunday Again

Monday morning starts off with my alarm working perfectly.  Apparently I am not.  Never heard a sound from 5:45 am when the alarm began it’s attempts to arouse me, until I actually woke up (primarily because it was so damn bright in my bedroom) at 8:30 am.

As I rush around to make coffee and gather my wits, my non-working or going to school 17 year old, (who will be working by Tuesday, AND enrolled in an online program or she’ll be lacking a house and food) strolls out of her room in a perky mood, looking beautiful and well refreshed, asking if she may have some coffee while humming a tune.  Why does this make me hate her more than I already do?  One can infer, I have my own reasons.

Now it’s 11:45 am and I’m still attempting to ingest enough coffee to lose the puffy eyes and co-workers are microwaving their lunch, making the whole place smell like food – yuck!  Half my day is missing and I’m trying to catch the hell up.  And write about it.  Because writing about it helps.  And takes up more time.  And I work better under pressure.

My Two Heads

It just struck me how ironic it is that on my way into work I was planning out what to “steal” from my daughters room in order to make her feel a similar rage I felt this morning when I couldn’t find my blush or eye shadow (“Hmmmm, I said to myself, I wonder where it could be” –  not really, that’s not at all what I said).  And now I sit at my computer getting ready to respond to an email from a colleague about a “working moms support group” and how I can help support their mission of being perfect, loving, doting parents as well as world renowned academics.

That’s Just About Enough

I’ve had it up to here, where ever that is.  My blood has been replaced with searing rage and is coursing through my veins at a pace that is near dangerous, though to whom I’m not sure.  I’m always surprised when I can move from one emotion to another – on the opposite end of the spectrum – in 8 hours.  Sleep does a body good, or puts loved ones in danger – it’s yet to be determined.

I actually felt compassion for my daughter last night when she said she was too sad to go to work or school and needed my support.  I almost regretted that I told her she had to go apply for jobs all day at the mall while I was at work instead of sitting on the couch watching movies, eating food and texting me that there was no food.  That is until the C-word was used in reference to my expectations of her which were “insane”.  Enough.  I’m done.  I have no empathy or room for your mouth, needs, wants or sadness anymore.  Let me explain that when you are supporting yourself there is no place for “depression”, being too sad and upset to “do life”.  And I don’t give a rats ass anymore.  You work or you die.  I will no longer be intervening.  Simple as that.  I know about depression and sadness, I really do.  It sucks and it makes life questionable.  But honey, there are times it’s a luxury to be depressed and now is not one of those for you.  E. Nough.

Dear Kids,

You’re fucked.  Both of you.  Seriously.  I’d really like to know what you’re little broken brains are thinking, if that’s what they are even doing. Are you able to imagine what life will be like for you in five minutes after this meal is over and you don’t have means or a plan for getting the next?  You have no idea how hard it is out there just to live, pay rent, buy food, put gas in the car (if you’re lucky enough to have a car).  The way I want to help you is to teach you how to work hard, but that’s backfired and you hate me.

I know, I’m mostly to blame for most all your issues, and I accept that with little to no argument otherwise.  I’ve been an ass.  A mean awful mother at times.  I imagine this is some kind of revenge, and although you have no idea, it’s about the worst kind.  Ouch.  When you are both falling flat on your face it’s hard to look in the mirror.  Though you forget, I also took care of you, fed you, clothed you, read to you and loved you in the best way I could and knew how.

Now I’ve read books, taken classes, gotten degrees and work in the field of families for Christ’s sake, but none of that changes history.  None of that can change my history.  We are all right where we are.  Past and present.  Fortunately our future is not yet determined.  Fortunately for you.  I’m going to attempt to regroup somehow, work on how to lovingly detach and give detached love.  Right now that looks like me spewing anger and impossible questions your way, but I’ll work on it.  That’s all I can do.

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