This morning started with one of my children making a bowl of cereal for breakfast.  75%-25% milk-cereal ratio. With 100% of the last of our milk. She proceeded to skim Cheerios off the milk pool-boy style, before dumping the entirety of the cereal-dust-impregnated milk down the sink. All this happened as our espresso machine made some end-of-life-rattle-screech and I realized although I desperately needed caffeine, fuck if I could drink it’s black-soul essence without milk product.

Defeated, I wandered over to the computer, turned it on, and received via email a snarky critique on my wattpad story.  I know authors aren’t supposed to acknowledge negative critiques for lots of reasons, one of which is if you put something out there, other people have the right to comment on it.  But I did feel like, really?  In my email?  And also, I’m not sure I really fall under the ‘author’ (and all the moral high ground that title seems to require) since I’m merely posting stuff for free on the internet.  If you think about it that way, why shouldn’t I be able to tell someone to stick it, one internet dweller to another?

Half an hour later, as I was dropping my children off in front of their school, my youngest said in her most Do Be A Dear, Jeeves, and Fetch It tone of voice, “I left my backpack at home.”

My eyeballs must have gone antiChrist level of bugging out, because REALLY?  You didn’t figure out until this moment you’d forgotten the ONE THING you have to take to school  EVERY DAY?!  But in my most calm voice, I said, “Well, that’s too bad.  Have a good day at school.”

In the space of 30 milliseconds, the kid went from Dear Jeeves to this:

Which is barely an exaggeration.  My 6 year old has always cried huge sparkly droplets running down her cheeks, hitching sobs, weight of the world crushing her narrow shoulders.  The worst is, I‘m pretty sure it’s not for show – she just feels things at volume ten.

Faced with the choice of leaving a tiny first grader, bawling on the school’s main sidewalk as I screeched away in my Cruella de Vil Minivan, OR having to be fucking Jeeves, I snarled, “This is the last time for the rest of the year.”  To which she whispered, “thank you,” and was probably fine the moment I pulled away.

Trader Joe’s for milk, then home for breakfast, then (when I should have been doing Anne stuff) I walked the 3.5 miles round trip to drop off Youngest Kid’s backpack.  I walked because I was a little afraid at how pissed off I still was.  Here I should confess last week, the kids were all sick with the pukes.  Everyone missed school at least once, but on different schedules, so I was caught cleaning up vomit, picking up kids on schedule (there is no busing system at this public school, and all three kids go do different schools) or generally being needed in some non-ego gratifying way.  Today I was ready for them to be gone at least 6 hours so I could get things done.  My life generally feels out of control in the very mundane and irritating way that someone always needs me to do something that’s not super important unless I don’t do it.

–A Deeper Level of Bitcheroo–

In January, Little came to visit. We road tripped to Monterey Bay Aquarium.  Along the ride, Little mentioned how our mother was really sad that my relationship with her is ‘not the same’ as it had been in the past. “She’s really broken up about it,” Little said.

I don’t know how you guys feel when things get triangulated, and guilt tripped by your mother via your sister, but if you’re like me, you hate the ever-loving fuck out of it.  As it turns out, Middle had also made a similar statement only weeks before, so I was already eyeball twitching by the time Little was two syllables into her comment.

Since we were trapped in a car, I explained AT LENGTH to Little why I wasn’t that close to Mom anymore, and all the circumstances in which I had needed Mom and she had been overwhelmed taking care of Dad.  By the end of my rant, Little looked like a turtle trying to crawl into the neck of her t-shirt.  In very agreeable, placating terms, she  told me she could totally (eyeballs wide)! see (shakes head in sympathy)! why I felt estranged from Mom.

“Wow.”  Little managed, backpedaling like mad.  “No, I can definitely see why you’d feel estranged from her. I’d feel estranged if she did that to me.”

That’s when it hit me.  “Is she still a mother to you?”  I asked.

Shrugs from Little. “Sure.”

“And what about Middle?”  I asked, gutshot.

“Takes care of Middle’s kids about twice a week.”  Little said.  My mother complained to me she hardly sees Middle or her family.

I hardly knew/know how to feel about it.  This sense of deep betrayal (my mother was not gone, she’s still out there in the universe somehow, mothering my sisters) versus this wild hope my mom might not really be lost forever, plus this horrible guilt (how could I be jealous of Little for Mom’s attention? Maybe Mom only has X amount of momming available, and Little needs it? Maybe I had done something to push mom away?) made/makes it hard to sort anything out.

I sat on it for about a month before calling to confront my mom.  She played it like I was the one avoiding her.  When I pointed out she was the one who told me I was an orphan, she said, “I say something ONE TIME and you hold onto it forever!” in a voice so perfectly Shirley MacLaine circa POSTCARDS FROM THE EDGE that it could have been a deleted scene.

In the end, we agreed she’d call me when she wanted to talk.  It’s been about two years of me calling her, and even though it’s a small thing, it’s hard to always be the person reaching out (and also the person who gets rejected if the other party can’t talk).  For two weeks she called, and then nothing.  Then I started calling her.

I don’t know what I think about this yet – there’s all these complicating factors and it’s hard to know when I’m being an asshole, or what makes me an asshole versus having a fair point.  A lot of it hinges on whether or not beating someone who’s already beat down is a reasonable thing to do.  Just barfing it up at this point, so maybe I can figure it out later.

— Last things to bitch about —

I’ve been binge watching THE WALKING DEAD, and now whenever I see a pedestrian, I watch for a legit moment, expecting their head to explode. Especially the shufflers!

I’ve also recently been informed that the double space after sentences is not merely outdated but OFFENSIVE! A SURE SIGN I’M A 40+ HACK. You guise, it’s like quitting smoking! I can hardly think when I’m trying not to double tap. It’s so satisfying, how can it be wrong?

Some music for you!