First Love

I know I have been neglecting my blog. I have been busy. Okay that’s a lie. I’ve been sluggish. I’ve been non-interesting and unmotivated. I have tried to think of something great, amusing, hell I would settle for a semi-stimulating paragraph so that whomever that dear one person out there is who reads my blog would continue to read it. That’s not working out.

I’m home for summer break and my brain is fried. Although the break from the Boyz n Da Hood school I work for is truly [TRULY] welcomed – the 24/7 time spent at home with my kids, eh not so much. There I said it. I hate being a SAHM. I hate the bickering. I hate the noise. I hate the laziness. I hate the mess. I cook, I clean, I wash, I yell at someone, I wipe-up, I cook, I sweep, I yell at someone, and I do it all over non-stop through the day. By the end of the day I want to tie my offspring together and duct tape their mouths shut and make them sit and watch me slowly break every item that they own that matters to them in this world. Then I would be the one to suffer. They would be bored out of their minds and would pester me to near death. No sense in shooting my own foot off and so I drink.

Speaking of pestering [to the point of suicidal thoughts], lately the teenager has been harassing me to see his girlfriend everyday, all day, any day. The GF has become a permanent fixture around here and it is getting a little difficult to handle. Not that I don’t approve of her. I do approve and really I want to get rid of her and dispose of the body like her. What is not to like? The girl is sweet and quiet, she is covered up and not dressed like a whore and hardly wears any make-up, and she is headed for college in the fall [score]. Plus I think she has been good for my teenager who has changed overnight into a more mature young man, praise the Lord and hallelujer.

Nonetheless her invasion of my house has been rough. If I am home and I am not expecting company I like to be totally relaxed in my house. For example I do not like to wear a bra but when you have company it is kind of a given that you will tie the wayward bananas up so they don’t fuck around and slap someone in the face. If I am home I also don’t like to wear make-up but when you have company it is polite to not scare the shit out of them by going el natural. If I am home I tend to wear a grubby t-shirt, one stained by bleach, stretched out to pure comfort, and regrettably that also means that one of those wayward bananas could fall right on out if one is not careful. That would be indecorous and possibly traumatic for company. If I am home I am also overbearing when it comes to the tidiness of my house [despite looking slovenly]. The normal bitching yelling I do at my husband and children about picking up after themselves has to cease. After all one should attempt to appear normal and self-controlled and not screaming like a deranged lunatic over a crumb on the toaster when she has company.

This shit is driving me crazy.

The icing on this shittastic cake was this past Thursday. We had a lot of errands to run and the GF was in tow for every one of them. [WTF.] The first stop was the orthodontist for the teenager. Admittedly I don’t usually go with him into the appointment. Wal-mart is right next door so I typically run in and get a few things needed and try to kill two birds with one stone. So why did it bother me that the GF was so quick to hold his hand into the appointment? I sighed and shrugged it off.

One of our next stops was to our family doctor so that both the teenager and NG could get additional vaccine shots they needed. NG was her dramatic self, crocodile tears, and I had to hold her hand and comfort her through her one shot. Then it was the teenager’s turn to get three shots and he turned to me and said, “Awe mommy will you hold my hand?” I started to get up and walk to him and then he did it, he crushed my fucking heart, and he said, “Oh never mind ma, Bree can hold my hand.” And he reached out for her.

What just happened? What in the fuck just happened? For 17 years I have been the one to hold his hand at doctor appointments, I have been the one to sooth his wounds, and did he just toss me aside for this pop tart? Oh. Hell. No. The nurse was staring at me, knowing me very well as the bitch that went off when she didn’t get her desired appointment time she was waiting for my response to this fuckery with a smirk.

I was speechless. This was a first. What do I do? My first instinct was to grab the little girl by her hair and put her out of the office. After all I am his mother and she didn’t belong here. Hold my baby’s hand? I don’t think so. I will break you in half Bree.

My second instinct was to interject myself and tell her to just go ahead and sit down and I would hold my boy’s hand. But then that would make me the mother that women in my son’s future would dread, the mother who couldn’t let go and in return produced a basket case mama’s boy.

Dammit.

So I fought back words and emotions and reluctantly sat down and nearly choked on each word as I said, “Okay. That’s. Fine.” Those words left a pungent taste in my mouth and I felt like I just got punked by the teen heifer. Damn her.

The teenager saw my face and he generously offered me the following, “I love you mama!”

Yea. Right. Just not as much as the little pop tart who has consumed your every waking moment and invaded my summer, my house, and your heart.

Shiat.