Hey, remember how, last night, I said, "if I can just sit there in bed before getting up in the morning, and say, 'Okay, I'm going to be patient today and I'm not going to yell, and I'm going to focus on the good shit and not the annoying shit, and I'm not going to let work get me all tense and shit, and I'm going to be in the moment and not worry about all the shit I've gotta do tomorrow, and man, I wish I had a bong right now 'cuz that would REALLY help a LOT," then, nine times out of ten, it will be a pretty fucking good day'"?
Yeah, I was full of shit, apparently. I tried just that, this morning. I was chip-chip-chipper at breakfast, and when I picked them up after school I was Mary-Fucking-Poppins, asking how their day was and being goofy and using funny voices and shit. The only thing I didn't do was make the goddamn car fly and, believe me, I tried. And then the rest of the afternoon was a fucking disaster. It was meltdown central at the Crabbydad Ranch, culminating when Mr. Z burst into tears after Miss O wouldn't let him look at the fucking Disney Princess sticker book some asshole mom let her daughter give to her for a birthday present. [Ow, that was a painfully worded sentence, but fuck it.]
Granted, it sounded like the boy had a shitty day at school. His best friend was out today with strep throat, he was "it" for for the entire game of tag during recess, and apparently no one sat with him at the lunch table today. That one made me feel really shitty. I guess there's this rule that once you take a bite of your lunch, you can't change your seat. There's my tax dollars at work -- Gestapo Lunchroom. So, Mr. Z was one of the first ones to sit down and didn't realize that everyone was sitting at a different table. But the boy will follow a fucking rule to the death and, having already taken a bite of his sammy, he was forced to sit solo for the entire lunch period. That just made my heart burst, picturing him sitting there, all alone, sipping on his little chocolate milk.
So, yeah, I can see why he lost his shit when he got home, but it sure as hell didn't make the afternoon go any easier. Sure, I cut him some serious slack, but he picked up said slack and then shat all over it. And Miss O was no fucking help, mind you. She's like a lioness sniffing out a lame gazelle. She knew he was on edge and sat there clutching onto that fucking sticker book, just waiting for him to crack. She waited, and waited until, wham, meltdown. Then she looks up at me like, "Gee, what did I do? Here Mr. Z, you want to look at it now?" She's a crafty one, that musky minx.
What's the best remedy for all this, you ask? Why, piling everyone into the car tomorrow night and driving to Chicago, that's what. Pawn 'em off on my 'rents for a couple of days. They'll get them all sugared up, let 'em stay up late for a few nights, then we'll load 'em on up again and drive back home. I can't WAIT for NEXT Monday afternoon. That should be a real fucking treat.
Who am I kidding? I'm going back to waking up in a shitty mood.
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