This time? Sooooo not me.
The Zen Master has not been with it this week. I’m a teeny tiny bit annoyed. Just a tad. Really…


Ok. Maybe more than a tad.

I love my husband.

A lot.

He does a lot of things for me and for our family. Just last night, he went grocery shopping, cooked dinner, cleaned the kitchen and did laundry. The thing he did not do?

He did not tell Princess Punk to stop acting like an evil little snitch and turn off the TV and do her goddamn chores. Or something to that effect but not so bitchy.

I got to do that. With a splitting headache, in a fog of cold medicine, with almost no voice. I got to be the angry, mean, horrible, “I HATE you” parent. And The Peach spent her evening alternately crying miserably or slapping me every time I held her, while simultaneously hollering “DADADADADADADA” as loud as her voluminous lungs would allow. Which is pretty goddamn loud.

Whoops... Replacement came in early today. Cry me a river.

Whoops… Replacement came in early today. Cry me a river.

And I’m tired of it. I’m tired of being the strict parent, bad cop, bitch… Whatever you want to call it. I’m tired of Princess Punk coming to me everytime she wants something and then getting mad at me when I say no, even if it’s for good reason.

“No, you can’t have that expensive new smart phone because we don’t have enough money to pay our electric bill.”

“Fine. Whatever. I don’t care.” (stomping around and slamming of doors)

I’m sick. And Grouchy. And I’m lonely. Because I’m just there, I’m just the cop, the taxi driver, the cook, the maid, the rocking chair. I’m not part of the family. Princess Punk only deigns to speak to me when she wants something. If I’m lucky I get a good day from The Peach where I’m more than just a sounding board for how mad she is that the doggie took her cheerios and how much she dislikes her socks and how she had an all orange lunch today. Oh, and I’m also her deli, since food tastes so much better if I’m eating it than if it was on her tray. I swear to God, the kid ate ALL of my mashed potatoes last night, right after she had refused said mashed potatoes in her high chair.

imagesCAC65KT8And The Zen Master? I feel like (and this is most likely not the case but regardless it’s how it feels) the only time I can get any attention from him is when I whine or when I grab his junk. Yes. Yes, I actually said that. Deal with it.

I appreciate him going to the store and cooking and cleaning last night, I really do. But what I really needed was to not have to be mad and angry and yelled at and whined at and beat upon. I wanted him to be the leader and for me to follow. Or retreat into a Mucinex induced coma. Or whatever.

And after the fourth time I told Princess Punk to get her shit together and finish her chores, I yelled “I QUIT” and slammed my dinner onto a plate and went into the bedroom and slammed the door. And then, because I could hear The Peach scrambling into the kitchen at breakneck speed (that rugrat can move) and The Princess on the couch and The Zen Master in the kitchen, both sternly saying “Peach!. Noooooo Peach. “Get back here Peach. Hey! Peeeeeeeach…” but not actually pursuing her, I stomped into the kitchen, snatched up my youngest spawn and brought her into the bedroom with me. Where she then ate my mashed potatoes.You know what?

Fuck you. Fuck you all.


I ended up sleeping on the couch because I was coughing so hard.

The Zen Master left without a good-bye kiss this morning.

Can I get a do-over? Where I calmly ask my husband to take over the parenting duties (heh… duties) so I can lay down so my head doesn’t explode?

I think I’ll move the boxes out of the closet.imagesCA1Y88TV

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