I’m upset! Actually, I’m fuming. My temper is supernova hot! (breath)
Don’t you find it infuriating that mothers get blamed disproportionately for how their children turn out? I could have had ten children, all but one turned out to be a serial killer, but I get accused. (I know! Just making sure you’re paying attention!)
I didn’t make these children myself; they are only 50% of me, so why the fuck am I shouldering a 100% of making sure this thing turns into an admirable adult! Why!
I’ve been suffering from parental burnout for like the last five fuckin’ years, and it’s just getting worse. And yes! I still want to run away – just pack my shit and leave. But then I’m gonna be labelled a rotten parent and all the years I put in will amount to nothing in everyone else’s eyes – even my children.
I wish I didn’t care but it hurts and it bothers me. They don’t even remember the shit I taught them:
- Say please and thank you
- Say hello when you enter (or some other appropriate greeting). Bye, when you leave.
- Share. Be kind. etc.
- Read a book
- I read them bedtime stories and tucked them in. You think they remember that shit? You think they’d read a book now? You remember me teaching you to read muthafucka! Helping you with your homework!
- Hang up your clothes. Clean up after yourself (because I’m not your fuckin’ maid!)
“Oh, mom, you never had birthday parties for us.”
“I never had birthday parties for myself!”
“Mom! You never let us go to birthday parties.”
“Yeah cause I don’t know them people.”
“Mom you never …”
“Shut the fuck up!”
I believe, with all my heart, that how our children turn out has nothing to do with who we are as parents. In most cases, you do your best and you do what you know to be right at the time. Dee is an excellent adult, but I would never take credit for raising her well. She’s just a good human bean (that is not dried or comes in a can). And if I won’t take credit for doing a good job with her, then I will not take the blame/credit for how-ever the boys decide to turn out!
According to my children, I am not a nurturer. If nurturer means coddler, I’m ok with that. You’re still alive, ain’t ya? Without any physical or significant emotional/psychological scars. Any issues you got because of my supposed parenting style, seek proper, non-substance therapy; none of us can go back. That’s not what this life is about!
I already apologized; if that’s not good enough, I got nothing else for you. I feel no guilt or shame for how I raised my children. My objective was/is to make sure they become upstanding adults and so far, one did.
I write my rage! (pain)
And sometimes I stand in the hallway that leads to your bedrooms with a ready to pour jerry can of petrol in my left hand and an authentic Zippo lighter in my right (and a classic Bic in the front pocket of my jeans as backup). Comtemplating.
But you know what! Fuck all of that. All of it! I got my exit plan.
Focus. Focus. Focus.Sam
You should see the kitchen right now, and because it’s hot, flies are everywhere. I refuse to wash the dishes this time. Although … I thought about it because I wanted to see if I could replicate that feeling of my mom being there behind me. I don’t know if that’s scientific. It probably isn’t.
I kinda want to tell my dad that he probably shouldn’t stay here. The next time he stays with me should be when I get my own place again.
Me and Mr. Rage are gonna sleep tight tonight!