Veni, Vidi, Ventus --
The randomly chaotic and crafty scribblings of a deranged, wannabe artist allowed too many colours in her Crayon box.

Surgeon General's Warning: Some content of "From Pooka's Crayon" may not be suitable for: work, blue-haired little old ladies, the politically-correct, rabid moonbats, uptight mothers, priests, chronic idiots, insurance claims agents, Democrats, children, small furry quadropeds from Alpha Centauri, or your sanity.

Wednesday, October 11, 2000

Are we there yet?

So, am I the only totally sick fuck up this late?

Apparently so. None of the other journals seem to have been updated recently, while I was busily off writing the great American novel: "How to Fuck Up Your Kid's Life in Twenty Moves or Less."

I feel like I'm a total failure at everything, heavy thoughts for 6 am when you haven't been able to go to sleep and all those little skeletons keep nagging at you. My eldest child is a neurotic, delicate wreck. The youngest is a sociapathic future Playmate looking for a clock tower.

Where the fuck can you go RIGHT with that? Talk about troubles finding a middle ground, it's the classic scenario: perfect victim, perfect victimizer. The baby is a bully, her sister cries. No, she bawls, loudly, like a cow with colic. It gets old, because it's not a matter of her not wanting to defend herself, she simply can't.

And I'm so tired, so tired of everything, so tired of being in charge of everyone else, tired of having to be responsible for everyone, tired of being sick, tired of feeling guilty, tired of the whining and crying and bitching and moaning that it's impossible to feel sympathy. I don't care about fair. I don't care about hurt. All I want is some fucking peace and quiet.

I might as well talk to myself. No one else around here listens to me.

My house is a disaster of Biblical proportions. My health is bad enough that the process of repeatedly bending down to pick up and put away various haphazardly strewn items relocated to such a position by Hurricanes 1 and 2 causes immediate waves of dizziness, followed by spiraling levels of sheer pain. Up and down and up and down are meant for roller coasters and carousels, not my ears

When, in some self-abusive burst of energy, I get totally sick of it and do a massive whirlwind attack before seeping into unconsciousness, it lasts all of an hour before WHAM. I'm giving them credit, usually it takes the amount of time for me to turn around before it's a mess again.

Thing 1, the delicate weeping flower, bawls and heehaws and moans when asked to clean up. You'd have thought we'd asked her to cut out her own liver for dinner instead of pick up her freakin mess. Thing 1 has perfected the Eeyore face, and has moping down to an art form.

Thing 2 looks at us like we're stupid, then wanders off to do whatever the fuck Thing 2 wants to do. Thing 2 has decided she will only respond to frantic screams. Everything else is totally ignored.

It goes something like this: Point child to toy. Explain to child that toy must be removed. Explain to child where toy must go. Explain to child why toy must go. Point child and toy to room. Make child pick up toy. Pick up toy, put toy in child's hand. Child drops toy. Child walks off. Repeat. Repeat again. Threaten to beat child. Repeat. Threaten to send child to room. Watch child walk happily off into her room, having decided that was where she wanted to go in the first place. Pick up toy. Put toy in room. Pull out last remaining strands of now-grey hair.

So, as I sit here writing the great American novel and wondering how many people are going to get ticked off for my verbosity ....

"Oh, MOMMY! You ugwy! Your nose all screwed up!"

Thaaaaaank you, Thing 2.

Stop growing up already.

For Mommy?


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