I have no idea what I’m doing. In a sea of confusion, this fact is the only clarity I have. In a den or poor decisions made in haste or poor decisions that were well thought out or poor decisions born from the best intentions, failure is all I have to cling to. I will fail tomorrow and the next day and every day after that. And for always and forever. Like a good neighbor, failure is there.
Lately, my good neighbor has been making more of a pronounced entrance; think Kramer.
I don’t know exactly when the shift happened. We were in a groove. Things were ok and then, all the good things melted. Like ice cream on a hot day or m&ms in a tightly gripped palm. The good things have turned messy and I left the wipes in the other diaper bag.
I told a friend today that I fear they can sense my chaos and that this chaos manifests in false abduction claims, running away and their failure to not only listen but to hear me that is so severe that I’m considering consulting a pediatric auditory specialist. Thankfully, my friend is a life coach and she says,
“It could be that or, it could be that sometimes, kids are just assholes. If you weren’t in chaos, they would still make chaos.” I’m paraphrasing. It was far more brilliant and used more better words and stuff.
AHA. Yes. Sometimes, kids are assholes.
And, sometimes, I’m an asshole.
And, I think we all just may have a case of the assholes real bad.
Sadly, knowing this doesn’t seem to make the 24 hour day seem less 480 hour-y and it does little to alleviate the cloud of Eeyore that follows our minivan like an incredibly loyal puppy.
I promise, I’m doing the counting my lucky stars thing. I’m doing the smelling the baby’s sleepy head thing. I’m doing the kissing and hugging and all the good things even though we’re coated in sticky, melted Rocky Road. Rocky road, indeed.
But, I’m also wondering, how long does a really entrenched case of asshole last? And, if it’s truly contagious, who transferred the first asshole germ? Can I stop the spread before my house is sucked into an abyss of asshole so great that not even a seasoned proctologist can save us?
Does this end with us surrounded by pizza boxes and scurvy? Is there still time before our case of asshole is terminal? Is the treatment boxed wine or, the far more intolerable, “waiting it out”.
Please, anything but that.
Until next week and hopefully greener pastures, this is Bad Parenting Moments (aka Chief Executive Asshole), over and out.