I Refuse to Participate Today.
The extent of my parenting will be to keep them from danger. That’s it.
(I’m the pug in this picture.)
My 10 year old can parent the little one, which is something he loves to do, usually right in front of me.
If he wants to be in control so much, he can do it. He can be me today. He can make the lunches. He can make the beds. He can make breakfast and help the little one get dressed. He can decide when it is time to leave and he can be responsible when/if a child is about to screw up.
I won’t bring his forgotten violin today. I won’t care. I can’t care.
I am done.
My emotional bank account is empty. I cannot do any more for anyone today until I have taken care of myself and most of the time, that means doing nothing.
Especially the fucking dishes.
I don’t want to listen to never ending mindless stories about Minecraft or Skyrim or whatever.
I don’t want to listen to the weather song one more time. I don’t want to listen to Monkeys Jumping on the Bed ever again. I don’t want to decipher what the hell my 4 year old is trying say. Even thought I am with her most of the time, I don’t always understand what she is saying.
Today, I don’t care.
I don’t have it in me today to care.
I felt despondent yesterday. Chatting with a close friend over IM, I said that I felt like I would never get anywhere in my life, that I felt like I was doing everything wrong. That the only thing I am good at is taking care of others.
He said that it is “freaking important.” Before his response came through, I wrote, “It may be admirable but it is not that fulfilling.”
Not for me. I love my kids and my animals; it feels so one-sided.
Just take. Take. Take.
There is more to me than someone who makes beds, meals, and cleans up all the time.
Today, I don’t want to do any of that. I don’t want to dust the ceiling fans. I don’t want to vacuum. I don’t want to make anyone’s bed. I don’t want to cook anything today and I certainly don’t want to clean up any messes.
The straw that broke the back for me was the buried sponge. The sink was overflowing with dishes. My husband, who is our primary breadwinner, didn’t do any of them yesterday. The dishes just kept coming. Somewhere under them all is the sponge.
I went to wash them this morning, instead of writing, because my sense of duty says “needs before wants" and right now, writing is still a want. It’s not “real work, ya know. <insert eye roll>
The sponge was not accessible. It was buried under a sinkful. I said, “fuck it” and then in my best mental Dana Carvey doing George Bush impression, “Not gonna do it.”
Instead, I made banana muffins which had been on my to-do list since there were fruit flies about. I made the muffins and just stacked my dishes on top of everyone else’s in a precarious, teetering “any minute now” potential avalanche of dirty dishes.
Today, it is not my problem or concern.
We don’t have a dishwasher. I am the dishwasher and today I am broken.
