A Facebook Post from my Mother-In-Law

FIL’s health is declining rapidly and he is being sucked in by the terrible-ness of his ALS in distressing ways. ALS usually only affects muscular function, leaving the afflicted fully aware but unable to control body movement. Rarely though, it also can have an effect on brain function and will cause frontal lobe dementia. There are indications (nothing empirically proven) that ALS with a psychological dimension has a much faster progression. This is what FIL has. He is already on a feeding tube as he is unable to swallow. You can not understand his speech. He will be getting a breathing apparatus sometime within the next few weeks as well as a special type of vest that will help him clear the secretions in his lungs since he is no longer able to cough on his own. He shuffles around since he doesn’t seem able to really pick up his feet properly to walk anymore. And he has mood swings. He gets frustrated and angry easily (understandably) but he will also randomly giggle at inappropriate things. He doesn’t seem to grasp what is happening to him. We had to fight with him to get him to stop working. MIL had to hide his keys so he wouldn’t go driving off somewhere. She’s going through the process to be named his guardian.

Thanksgiving was bittersweet.

There were 12 of us total. My Mom, The Zen Master, Princess Punk, The Peach and me, plus The Zen Master’s sister (we’ll just refer to her as SIL), her three kids aged 4, 10 and 12 (I think?), MIL and FIL. Oh and The Boy (Princess Punk’s boyfriend) was there as well.

We made WAY too much food. A 22lb turkey, stuffing, gravy, spinach soup, maple pecan sweet potatoes, cornbread pudding, brussel sprouts, a veritable vat of macaroni and cheese and fresh-made rolls plus 4 pies for dessert (2 pumpkin an apple and a pecan). Princess Punk and My Mom made the turkey, Princess Punk made the apple pie and I did pretty much everything else. It was quite the spread.

And we all got to sit together at the table as a family. FIL sat with us even though he couldn’t eat, and he enjoyed the time with us, especially with all his grandkids together in one place. This  was likely to be his last Thanksgiving. MIL was angry. Not at anyone in particular, just “stages of grief” kind of anger at the unfairness of it all. It was a blessing to all be together. I did miss my own father a bit though.

Anyway. This was all to lead in to MIL’s Facebook post this afternoon

As my Beloved and I face our ultimate challenge, I share a prayer with family and friends given to the Life Force in whatever form your perception takes. I ask those who are willing to say the words when they think of us, or read them once aloud as you find them. As I say them, I think of those of you facing similar challenges. You are in my heart daily.MIL


Not Ready to Make Nice…

You’ve heard that song right? Dixie Chicks? Responding to the backlash they got from Natalie Maines saying she was ashamed George W. Bush was from Texas? I was listening to it the other day and it made me think about my (current lack of) relationship with my father.

Forgive, sounds good

I can do that. I want to do that.  I know that in his mind, it is my fault, and I sent him to jail and I know that he doesn’t forgive me for that, no matter how justified it was.

 Forget, I’m not sure I could.

Not a chance. A year later and I still wonder if I’ll ever be able to be alone with him without being absolutely terrified. I still have nightmares.

They say time heals everything
But I’m still waiting

It will happen. And I am healing. Slowly.

I’m through with doubt
There’s nothing left for me to figure out

I know what happened. I have a vague idea why, at least on a long-term basis. He completely lost his shit. And I was screaming too, don’t get me wrong. But there is no doubt in my mind, or in anyone’s who was involved that he was wrong and no matter what I have apparently done to him throughout my life to make him so angry, so full of rage and hate that I knew that I was going to die that day, he still went so far over the line that he obliterated it completely.

 I’ve paid a price
And I’ll keep paying

Physically, mentally and emotionally. Even financially. And the fact remains that no matter what happens from this point on, even though he will always be my father, I lost my Daddy that day.

I’m not ready to make nice
I’m not ready to back down
I’m still mad as hell and
I don’t have time to go round and round and round

I’m not going to rethink this over and over again in my head.

 It’s too late to make it right
I probably wouldn’t if I could

It will never be right. We may reconcile at some point, but what happened will always be there, hanging over our heads. The big, ugly, deformed, elephant in the room that neither of us will be able to talk about. And it should be there. I will not be safe, at least not emotionally if that elephant pokes its twisted, hairy trunk into anything we might be able to salvage.

‘Cause I’m mad as hell
Can’t bring myself to do what it is you think I should

I won’t apologize. I will not. Don’t get me wrong, I said some really nasty shit. But my apologies were cried into my pillow and screamed out in the middle of the night and aching in my hip and jaw and catching my eye with the floater that will always be there, hanging out in the lower left corner of my visual field.

I know you said
Can’t you just get over it

Honestly, I don’t know. He may not even give a shit. He may be relieved he doesn’t have to deal with me anymore. He may be vindicated that I still cry when I think about it (like now)

 It turned my whole world around
And I kind of like it

Things are better for us. I never realized how worried I was about My Mom until she came to live with us. How there was this constant, nagging worry that one day I would get a phone call that he had lost it, not with me, but with her. And he would have killed her. No question. I fought back. She couldn’t have, or wouldn’t have. We’re safe, a new kind of family, and even with the stress and logistics still being worked out, I do kind of like it.

I made my bed and I sleep like a baby
With no regrets and I don’t mind sayin’

Ok, I never slept like a baby. But now, despite the occasional persistent nightmare, getting fewer and farther in-between, I am sleeping better than I did. We’re safe now.

It’s a sad sad story when a mother will teach her
Daughter that she ought to hate a perfect stranger

He’s not a stranger, but he probably will be to The Peach. And Princess Punk still doesn’t know how she is supposed to feel about it. But I won’t teach them to hate him. They shouldn’t. He offered to take The Princess shopping for her birthday. When I told her that it was a possibility and asked her how she felt about it, she said, “Um… I don’t really know.” It wasn’t teenage apathy. She just doesn’t know.

And how in the world can the words that I said
Send somebody so over the edge
That they’d write me a letter
Sayin’ that I better shut up and sing
Or my life will be over

There was no letter. Just a rushing force that (quite literally) knocked me down.

I’m not ready to make nice
I’m not ready to back down
I’m still mad as hell and
I don’t have time to go round and round and round
It’s too late to make it right
I probably wouldn’t if I could
‘Cause I’m mad as hell
Can’t bring myself to do what it is you think I should

I can bring myself to be his daughter. I love him. But I can’t bring myself to be the person I was. The person who always listened to him, and believed him when he told me I was fat. Or an idiot. Or worthless. Or a manipulative little bitch. Because I’m not. And I won’t see myself through his eyes anymore.

Forgive, sounds good
Forget, I’m not sure I could
They say time heals everything
But I’m still waiting

A work in progress…

I am currently sitting in my room, at my desk, on my now working laptop.

It is SO nice to have an actual keyboard to type on.

But we’re still shifting. Trying to make this home fit us, to make this living situation work.

So here’s a (very) rough floor plan-

A General Idea

A General Idea

This is not working too well.

The Family Room has been completely taken over by Princess Punk. It’s gross, the couch (that came with the house) is busted and itchy and the carpet (the only one in the house) is disgusting. Here’s the thing… She’s completely taken over My Mom’s space too. They were supposed to share, but… Have you ever shared anything with a 14-year-old? And both of the girls have wormed their way into my bedroom and latched their sharp little claws into my own space.

The room where the hot tub is was supposed to be my private space. It isn’t. It’s full of spiders and is smells funny from the spa chemicals. It’s fine for the 20-30 minutes I need to soak the worst of my aches out, but as a place for me to just hang out? Nope.

So here’s the current plan… TV and PS3 will move into what is now the living room and will become the family room. The Playwoom (yes I spelled that right) will move into what is now the family room and Princess Punk will move her art space in there as well. It’s much more appropriate (and sanity-inducing) for siblings to share space rather than a teenager share a space with her grandmother.

I’m still working out where I want to be, but honestly, if I can keep the girls out of my bedroom and get a more comfortable desk and chair, I’m fine here. All I want is a comfortable place to write, play CandyCrush and watch Netflix.


Just a little furniture moving...

Just a little furniture moving…

So, a small change should make a big difference-
And The Zen Master? He has the majority of the basement. Not too worried about him. Although he might need a door. Don’t want another generation walking into his office while he’s viewing “questionable material” on his computer…

Another financial rant.

That Man, my father, has yet to pay his alimony this month.

Granted, it is only a few days late and he probably just forgot, but here’s the thing…

Money is tight at the moment. Like, our mortgage is due tomorrow and if The Zen Master and I pay My Mom’s share too, we will be down to about $50 and the mortgage on the other house is due 3 days after that. And we won’t get the rent for the other house until the 15th.

Things have been a little bit squeezed the past two months.

wpid-back-to-school-shopping.png.pngPrincess Punk started High School last week and the amount of money we had to lay down to get her ready was ridiculous. She needed new clothes. Not like, “I just have to have something new for school Mom,” but Holy Crap this girl has put on about 10lbs of pure muscle, her body shape has changed again and the jeans she has look like leggings, assuming she can actually zip them. And I promised her that there would be minimal thrift shop deals this year. I actually like shopping at the thrift shop. I like getting compliments on my clothes and being able to say, “This? 2 bucks. No, seriously. Great find right?” Princess Punk, not so much. Especially considering the difficulty shopping for her body shape anyway and the fact that she actually wants to be more individual and have her own style. Which I really can’t argue with.

So clothes, binders, pencils and a new backpack (the old one is busted and the other ones we have are apparently too small).

Then soccer. She did NOT make varsity, but only because there are not enough JV players. She has been playing with both JV and varsity so it’s clear that the coach still recognizes how awesome she is. Oh, and the coach and the sweeper, who is currently a senior, are “grooming” The Princess to be sweeper on varsity next year. Meaning she will pretty much be running the defense as a sophomore. Fucking-A, that’s MY girl. Unfortunately… She generally has practice or games 6/7 days a week. Practice consists of a 2 mile run and then an hour-long (or longer) practice. She needed running shoes. New cleats. New shin guards. And, since the uniform didn’t include socks, a pair each of white and green soccer socks. $10 per pair. Seriously.

Oh, and don’t forget the first $200 installment for the Girl’s Soccer July ’15 trip to Venice. Granted, she doesn’t have to do that, but it is such an amazing opportunity and if we do some fundraising and participate in the team fundraisers which get split evenly amongst participating girls, we can scrape together the $3200 for her to go. Plus we’ll have to come up with another 3 grand for My Mom, since I am SO not comfortable sending a diabetic 15-year-old to Europe without a family member. And it’ll be nice for Mom to travel. Her half is likely to come out of her rapidly dwindling 401K though.

Grocery shopping… With school starting and Princess Punk busy from sunup to sundown between high school homework load and 12 hours of soccer a week plus travel to away games (yesterday’s game was in St. Johnsbury, easily an hour each way), we have decided to provide her with as much “on-the-go” food as humanly possible. Because of the D-Monster, she needs to make sure she has food available all day. And making PBJ sandwiches isn’t particularly realistic since they 1. get mashed and 2. are not a fast snack for a kid with braces. So a $450 trip to Costco for the basics (TP, paper towels, sugar, splenda, etc.) and a shit-ton of pre-packaged granola bars, muffins, cheese crackers, protein bars and microwave meals for her to scarf if she has 5 minutes between school and practice. And lots of PowerAde Zero.

I'd say it weighs about 6oz?

I’d say it weighs about 6oz?

Because Princess Punk her insulin pump is the size of a pager (remember those?) and is attached to her infusion site on her arm or leg with super-thin tubing, it can get yanked out, or even hurt other girls while playing. So she is not able to wear her pump during practice or a game. so 2 hours without an insulin pump = blood sugars in the 4-500’s. Since her body knows that’s totally fucked up, the first thing it does is pull all the water out of her cells in an attempt to flush the sugar out of her blood. It’s why diabetics have to pee a lot. It’s also why she gets dehydrated when she plays.  Blood sugars in the 4-500’s + hot and humid weather = a 32oz PowerAde and about a half-gallon of water (if possible) every day.

So there’s that. Then the super-high electric bill (not enjoying the pool, but at least everyone else is), various expenses here and there and I FINALLY got the bill for my responsiblity from the jaw surgery I had a year-and-a-half ago. Four. Thousand. Dollars. After insurance.

wpid-pro-obamacare-photo-1.jpgBut universal healthcare is a bad idea. Fuck you Michele Bachmann.

And in that same vein… I have recently started Abilify. Which is freaking amazing. Like wonder-drug amazing. But thanks to Big Pharma bending us over the pharmacy counter and sticking it to us in a not happy way, my co-pay, after insurance is over $400 a month. I got my first month free and there is some kind of coupon to pay up to $200 (I think) of refill co-pays, but that’s still over $200 a month. For a drug that actually works. So far, anyway. not sure what I’m going to do when I run out of my first month supply.

My Mom’s healthcare premiums for her multiple medicare, medicare supplemental, prescription and prescription… whatever, are an arm and a leg, which I suppose means they can just get more money from you after they amputate. On top of all that, her prescription co-pays vary so much, we have no idea what to budget for, but it seems they are at least $200 a month.

And My Mom… My Mom seems to be having some kind of blood pressure reaction to one of her psych meds. So the idea was to wean her off of it. Simple right? Not so. A few days after dropping just one of her 3 doses in a day threw her into a downward spiral that was honestly quite terrifying. She saw her therapist and my (and now hers too) medication APRN yesterday. She is most likely going to go to the hospital for a week just to get her off this stupid drug that makes her BP drop 10-15 points when she stands up. And hopefully find something to replace it with. Because titrating down the medication at home is a scary prospect given the fact I had to have Our Therapist call her and confirm she wasn’t actively suicidal.

That last one wasn’t exactly financial. Except for the fact that I may need to cut back on OT in order to make the childcare schedule work. But honestly, I need My Mommy WAY more than I need an extra $200 this month.



Things are… sketchy right now.

Nothing bad really, just nothing particularly good either.

My Mom is waiting for her divorce settlement to be finalized.

And she is waiting to see how much actual cash she will have at that point.

Because we need to know if we can come up with a minimum down payment for the house we’d like to buy.

Which is a moot point unless we sell the house we are all uncomfortably crammed into at the moment.

Which has produced a single brief phone call since it was listed 7 weeks ago.

And I will be extremely lucky to walk away with anything more than a few thousand. For a house I put over 30,000 dollars down on. Thank you Grandma for leaving me enough money to buy a house after you passed. I’m sorry I seem to have pissed it away in this economic clusterfuck that is particularly discriminatory against mobile homes.

My Mom is in The Peach’s room. The Peach’s crib is squeezed in next to my bed. I have to scoot to the end of the bed to get out in the morning. Which is not particularly easy when you have to pee. My Mom and Princess Punk are sharing a bathroom. Which tends to end up in some sort of drama at some point almost every day. I have no place to get away. None of us do. Except The Princess, the only one who has her own room. But nobody wants to go in there anyway, it’s a stage 6 biohazard zone. I can’t even have privacy in my bathroom. The door doesn’t lock, and my brilliant, not-quite-2-year-old is quite adept at opening doors. So I frequently spend time on the toilet or in the shower yelling, “NO! OHMIGOD, Do NOT touch that!” or, “Mommy is going peepee in the potty. Could you please go see Daddy instead?” To which I’m met with raucous giggles and much squealing and “nooooooooooo” and cockroach-style scrabbling all over the room.

Everything is crowded. And claustrophobic. And loud and crazy and it’s making me want to run away and hide.

Oh, did I mention that HE is living in a 2800 sq foot 4 bedroom, 3 bathroom house? By himself.

Just sayin’.

I just want to know what to expect. Even a dim idea about what to expect. I just want one less thing to worry about. Something I can think about. Look forward to. Even make some tentative plans around.


An Open letter to my dad

I had originally written this back in May, after a particularly shitty family dinner trying to vent some anger. I never published the post and kept it private, but given recent events, I’ve resurrected it to reflect some of the things I’d like to say to him, but can’t. I was going to edit it, but it is honestly still pretty much all still applicable. I’m just going to add a post script at the bottom.

Dear Daddy…

Stop being such a dick.

I love you and Mom loves you and Princess Punk loves you and The Peach loves you and even The Zen Master loves you.

So why are you such an asshole to us?

I realize you have some kind of problem demonstrating love to the people you care about. But you could give us a little bit. It’s getting to the point where I actually dread going there for family dinners or anything because you will inevitably say something mean or just be generally pissy to me or someone I care about. You’ve made me cry. You’ve made Princess Punk cry. And you’ve made Mom cry. A lot. You even pissed of The Zen Master (no small feat) when you went on for 20 minutes about how disrespectful and what a pain in the ass Princess Punk is and how you didn’t really want to spend time with her and as a matter of fact, you didn’t really want her around at all. When she was sitting 10 feet away.

She’s just a kid. That shit hurts. I know.

Would it kill you to say, “I love you?”

Do you have some sort of disease that would start devouring your muscle tissue if you uttered that short sequence of vowels and consonants?

I grew up with you being a shit to me and Mom. I’m sure it wasn’t all the time, but when I’m upset with you, like I am right now, it feels like it was. Yet, I still spend way too much of my precious mental capacity trying to make you proud of me, wondering how you feel, what’s wrong, who made you mad this time… To no avail. I was never smart enough, sensible enough, accomplished enough, clean enough or sorry enough for what a failure I was. Looking back, I wonder if some of the reason I gave up playing an instrument or playing sports or trying at school was because I just wanted you to notice me. And since I could never be good enough, at least you’d pay some kind of attention when I failed you. All I ever wanted was to make you proud of me. And It was impossible. So I just… gave up.

And Mom? You have always blamed her for her illness. Something she can’t help. And because you have done that for as long as I can remember, she hides. Shoves it down into a teeny tiny place and covers it with whatever numbs the pain until it becomes too much and she gets completely overtaken. And you have made her worse. Yes. You. You have made her disease more difficult to combat. Because when she’s feeling like shit and is lost in the deep dark rabbit hole of depression, you can’t give her a hug and tell her you’re there for her or, God forbid, that you love her. No. Instead you tell me (when I suggest showing your wife some affection might actually make her feel better), that “it’s like talking to a brick wall.” No. You’re the brick wall. And we’re all just sad little birds who keep flying into you top speed and going ~SPLAT~.

And I always marveled at how wonderful you are with everyone else. You are friendly and jovial and you will sit and have lengthy conversations with people you just met. While sitting next to your wife. Who you’ve said about 3 words to in the past week. And they weren’t nice words either.

Listen, please don’t take this as an assault or me telling you I hate you or anything like that. Because I don’t. I love you very much. And this letter is making it sound like there’s been nothing but bad. Which isn’t at all true. You’re funny and silly and kind and pretty much the smartest person I know. I will never hear “Hotel California” without remembering laying on my stomach on that ugly orange and brown shag carpet in the basement in Coventry and listening to you play bass along with the track. Even though it’s completely gross, I was okay with you grabbing Mom’s boobs at the table because it was good to see that after 35 years of marriage, you still wanted to do that. I can still hear you teaching Princess Punk how to harmonize with The Indigo Girls. I remember the first time I saw you cry, when Uncle Johnny died. You weren’t crying because of him, but rather, you cried because I did. Because I saw Grandma stricken with grief and I told you and you said that a parent should never outlive their child. And we cried together. And the first time you held Princess Punk. And the first time you held The Peach. And when you gave me away at my wedding. And how, for the first brief and fleeting time, I knew you were proud of me when I (finally) graduated from college. And when I lost the weight.

And I know you have your own demons to deal with. Whatever they might be. You never let us in, so I really don’t know. And I wish I could have helped you. But I couldn’t. But honestly? And I’m being painfully honest here as you can see… Honestly? I think you need to get your head out of your ass. You need to realize that although you are stressed about work and finances and health and the house and whatever else, you need to take a step back and remember why you are stressed about all that. Because I know. The reason you stress about money and work and the house is because you have to keep everything moving. You have to take care of us (well now, mostly just you and Mom). And it’s because you love us, I know it is. But you need to remember that sometimes, we’d rather be homeless with a hug than isolated with a roof.

I’m sorry I had to say all that, and I’m sure that if you read this, you will be mad and not speak to me for months. But I had to get it off my chest. Because Mom is really really hurting. And you need to step up.

I love you, and we need you. We all need you.



So I have no idea if you will ever read this given what has now happened. And I don’t know if things will ever be remotely ok between us again. Because I know, that although this is your doing, you will never see it that way. You will always blame me for what happened. You will always blame me for Mom leaving. You will always think that I won in the battle over her that only ever existed in your own head. And I’m sorry about that. I’m not sorry because I’m taking responsibility. I know that things were said that couldn’t be taken back. I know that I fought with you and I was angry, but I will not take responsibility for you choking me until I couldn’t breathe. For punching me in my recently surgically repaired jaw. For hitting me so hard that I hit the ground like a felled tree in the forest. For doing all of this in front of your granddaughters while Princess Punk screamed hysterically, “PLEASE STOP! You’re killing her!”

No, I’m not sorry for that. I’m sorry because I lost my Daddy. I’m sorry that after 30-something years of marriage, my parents are getting a divorce. I’m sorry that My Mom is afraid to be alone in a room with you. I’m sorry that you can’t understand that you’re not being fair to her with the settlement. I’m sorry that I can’t talk to R&B anymore because I don’t want them to feel like they have to pick sides. I’m sorry that Crazy Girl feels awkward when she sees you out with the band. I’m sorry that you took down my pictures in your house.

Even after all that happened, all that you did to me, in front of your wife, in front of my children, I still love you. And the last thing you said to me, before you literally threw me out of your front door onto the porch was, “Go ahead… Tell me you hate me… Tell me you hate me like you’ve always hated me.”  It may be the last thing you ever say to me. And you know what? That hurts more than anything. More than any of the other awful things you said. More than any punch, slap, kick or poke. Because I have NEVER hated you. Never. Sometimes, maybe I didn’t like you so much, but hate? Not a chance. And the fact that you couldn’t see that, that you couldn’t see that you have always been the one person in my life that I wanted to make happy, the one person who I looked up to more than any other, the one person who I wanted…. NO… Needed to make proud? That killed a part of me. Something inside my heart died that day. Because you clearly never understood. That I love you.

And I will always love you.


Some Days are Worse Than Others.

The Peach has discovered that if she bats her long, golden eyelashes at her sister and says, “I seep wif sishy?” Princess Punk will melt and bring her to bed with her. This is usually simply a ploy to stay up later and bounce around from person to person. Last night, the girls retreated to Princess Punk’s bedroom, The Princess grinning like a fool and The Peach with her arms wrapped tightly around her sister’s neck. 20 minutes later, my phone rings. Yes, my daughter called me from down the hall.

“Mom! Wait…. Hang on….” (rustling, then Princess Punk’s muffled voice)

“Who do you want to sleep with Peach?”

(raspy breathing then a slightly less muffled)

“I seep wif Mommy? Mommy! I seep wif MOMMY!”

“Come get her, I’m not getting up.”

So I turn of The Walking Dead and The Peach comes into my room. The Zen Master is playing on his computer, so it’s just me and the midget. We tickle and giggle and snuggle for a little while and then I put her in “The Big Girl Bed.” Which is not a big girl bed at all, but is in fact, her crib. She usually doesn’t have too much of a problem sleeping in her crib now, since she’s still about 6″ away from my head. Not last night.

“NOOOO! Don WAN it! I seep wif SISHY!!!”

Then she puts on the pout. I got her calmed down before hysteria set in and since most of our books are in storage, and it’s damn near impossible to get her to sit through storytime when she’s in “A Mood,” I put some bedtime stories on YouTube and let her watch them until she fell asleep. Which took about 20 minutes.

Not too bad… for a little while. Pretty much right after I fell asleep, she woke up and threw her binky (with phenomenal accuracy) directly at my eye. The she started crying.

“GODDAMMIT! OUCH! Zen Master… ZEN MASTER! Wake up and get your daughter, I’m done.”

So The Peach ended up spread eagle in the bed in-between us, waking periodically to whimper and cry, just loud enough to wake me up, but not her father.

And then I had a nightmare. I’ve been having them on and off, mostly vague, making me wake up abruptly feeling vaguely scared and disoriented.

Last night, was vivid.

It basically boiled down to my father trying to choke me in the hallway at work. I woke up hyperventilating with my hands protectively around my neck. It took me a full minute to become lucid enough to take my hands away, even with The Zen Mater’s firm, reassuring grip on my arm.

I slept through my alarm. Twice.

I cried through physical therapy this morning. I woke up with a headache from my jaw and just hurt diffusely through my head, neck, shoulders and upper back. The pain was all too familiar and I was so frustrated and angry because it was gone. For 4 months, I had huge relief from that debilitating pain and I was free. And then, in a matter of a few minutes of life-changing insanity, it all fell apart. And it isn’t fair. Because in two years, when his record is expunged from the misdemeanor he plead to, I will still be struggling with the physical and emotional damage he unleashed upon my life and the life of my family.

I got to work angry and sad and hurting and unable to focus on very much at all. I made it about 2 and a half hours before I walked down the hallway to my boss’s office, shut the door and started crying as I handed him a slip so I could use even more of my precious sick leave to go home and hide.

Princess Punk was in a snit and The Peach was alternately grouchy and psychotic. I ended up shutting myself in the bathroom and sitting in the shower, sitting in water as hot as I could stand it until the hot water ran out.

And then I climbed into bed and stared at The Peach’s crib, which is not supposed to be in my bedroom, and thought about how much I’d like to be somewhere else right now. And then I zoned out on facebook games until I was able to pass out.

Tomorrow is another day.

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