I’m done. I can’t handle staying home anymore. If it’s not the never-ending, overflowing sink of dishes (seriously. There are three of us in this house. And one of our dishes are made entirely of plastic. How in the WORLD do we have so many dirty coffee cups?!); or the toys in the living room that I swear I JUST put away; or our bedroom, which STILL isn’t unpacked, nevermind that we’ve lived in this house for almost 2 months, and is filled to the brim with dirty clothes (because my lovely husband REFUSES to put his D@MN dirty clothes in the hamper, then have the audacity to complain that he never has any clean clothes. Dude, the only clothes that I can TELL are dirty are your effin’ socks, and that’s only because they smell like someone DIED in them)
All that? I could handle. If Claire was being even remotely managable.
MrsMillerTime, you might want to skip this part.
Everything I say is met with either “No,” which I can sorta handle, or a full blown hissy fit, complete with a crumpled body falling dramatically to the floor, and screams that are no doubt making the neighbours think I’m murdering pigs in my free time. It can be something as harmless as, “Claire, let’s put your shoes on.” You’d think I just asked her to kill a f@cking puppy or burn her eyes out with hot sticks (which, coincedently, I have the urge to do on a DAILY basis).
Eat? Forget it. Why would I ask her to subject herself to something as terrible as FOOD?!
Get buckled in her carseat? Might as well be driving her to her death.
Everything is a fight, from getting dressed (we’re becoming hermits because I refuse to let her leave the house without pants), to taking a bath (“What do you mean I can’t stand up in the tub? HOW DARE YOU?!”)
I can ignore the dramatic meltdowns for little things; I simply say “Claire, I’m going into the kitchen. When you’re done, come find me.” But for things like standing in the tub, or getting buckled, I can’t just let her go and walk away.
I found the end of my rope tonight. After going to the gynocologist with her in the morning, and the resulting fight to get dressed, one 1 hour nap, and a fight every time I put her in the carset (sorry that we had to go to the store to get YOU milk. I won’t do it again), we went to my niece’s dance recital where she proceeded to perfect the limp fall onto the floor when I wouldn’t let her spin in circles while the other kids were doing their recital.
It didn’t help that my sister-in-law, brother-in-law, his mom and sister, and my mother-in-law were all there and not one of them tried to help me. In fact, after seeing both my niece and Claire (they’re the same age) get in a little fight over the kid’s chairs, my mother-in-law picked up my niece. Even though Jane’s other grandma and other aunt were right there.
I lost it on my way home. DH offered to take Claire for the night (um, duh) so I could get some coffee or a drink or something. But I can’t think of a worse evening than to spend it alone after a terrible day.
So, I’m sitting in my garage, as far away from the Devil Incarnate as I can and trying to re-group.
I hate it here.