Let the ranting begin...

DISCLAIMER: I LOVE my children and do not (really) believe that ANY child should be harmed emotionally or physically EVER. Unless I am working on the most severe  migraine EVER after little to no sleep and said child is pushing and pushing...THIS is yesterday's rant, thank goodness, because this migraine is almost preventing me from lifting my head. Good times...


Tuesday, January 10--the saga begins...
4:15...A.M.:  "Of course I will run away with you, Brad Pitt " (he's too much of a "children are wonderful and let's have twenty more of them" for THIS dream) hot guy from Grey's Anatomy...Mark...Sloan. Yeah...Mark Sloan.  I KNOW he has a REAL name, but do I care right now?

"OF COURSE I will run away with you MARK McDreamy (or is he McSteamy? Does it matter?!)! We'll go to a place where NO ONE cries or yells, where fattening foods make you LOSE weight and where going to the gym is frowned upon. If you want to get sexier, just eat another candy bar or ice cream sundae. H-O-T!

4:20 A.M.: "Oh no...I couldn't possibly do THAT, Mark Sloan. I'm marri----"
BAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAM! "MOOOOOOOMMMMYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!"BAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAM! Blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahcrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycry    (and that's ME not HIM) crycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycry!


"WHAT?! STOP YELLING AND COME IN!"
"I didn't want to wake everyone up."







"REALLY?!"
"YES. Geesh. There's something wrong with my hand. It feels tingly."




(If you are wondering what these breaks in the page are, I am PAUSING here. I OFTEN...PAUSE for effect after Brayden speaks to me because I find what he says to be...funny. Sometimes "funny-ha- ha" and sometimes "funny-are you KIDDING me right now? You DIDN'T WANT TO WAKE EVERYONE UP?! THAT'S why you tried to bang down the door and were SCREAMING at the top of your lungs?! REALLY?!" but I don't want to scream like the lunatic I am, so I pause instead. For effect.)



Okay. I need you to understand that this happens EVERY night. It is ALWAYS something. I KNOW I wouldn't mind being pulled from WHATEVER dream I may be in each night if there was EVER an emergency, but THERE IS NEVER AN EMERGENCY! I truly do not think I can take it anymore. I know I discussed this in http://anothertiredmommy.blogspot.com/2011/12/children-of-mass-destruction.html and I know it is only a part of his strategy to finally conquer me, but I told you--I WAVED the white flag. SO WHY IS THIS STILL HAPPENING?!

"Did it feel numb first?"
"Yes."
"It's asleep. Your hand is asleep. Unlike ME at four thirty in the morning, your HAND gets to SLEEP. Now go to bed."
"You don't have to be so mean--how was I supposed to know? Geesh. You don't even CARE about me..." stompstompstompstompstompstompstompstompstompstompstompstompstompstompSLAM!




(again...pausing...)




4:58:  "MOMMMMMMA! MOMMMMMMA! Bwyaden wowoke me up!"
CRYCRYCRYCRYCRYCRYCRYCRYCRY! (again--that's ME) Get up and check on her before EVERYONE is up.
"Addison, go back to sleep--it's fine."
"No--I wawant to seeeppwiff YOU!"
"No, Addie, you need to sleep in your own bed."
"NOOOOO! Why do I hafffftoooo?!"
Why indeed! Why am I up fighting about this when I could be cuddling with the child peacefully (as peacefully as possible with her foot up my nose) in my own bed. Stand firm--"I'm sorry, honey--you'll be fine. I love you!" This went in circles for about forty minutes--I won't subject you to any more of it.

5:40: It feels so GOOD to finally fall into bed again. I'm exhausted. Being this exhausted, one would think that falling back to sleep would take seconds. One would be wrong. 5:53.  6:08.  6:23.
"BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP!"

I'm not sure, but I think I suffered TWO minor heart attacks today. When Brayden came barreling into my Mark Sloan dream and now. I rarely hear my husband's alarm, but luckily today he had to get up earlier than usual and it went off SECONDS after I fell asleep. YAY ME.

7:10: "MOMMMMMY!" SHAKESHAKESHAKESHAKESHAKE! " Brayden says that I am NOT allowed to chew his gum! MOMMMMMY--WAKE UP!"

"Really? REALLY? REALLY?! FIRST of all, WHERE did Brayden GET gum, SECOND OF ALL, WHO said that EITHER of you could eat it and LASTLY--WHY WOULD YOU THINK IT IS OKAY TO WAKE ME UP OVER SUCH NONSENSE?!"

"I KNOOOOOOWWWW--GEESH. FIIIIINE.  You don't even CARE about me." STOMPSTOMPSTOMPSTOMPSTOMP SLAM!

I think there was no gum. They spent the last thirty minutes strategizing. I'm not sure if the little one was in on it or not, but I know their plan:
 THIS is the trick. Get her too tired to have ANY idea what is going on and throw nonsensical words at her. She will think that SHE is crazy (which, let's be honest, she is at LEAST on her way, if not camped out in Crazy Town as we speak) and in turn, she will let us do WHATEVER we want.

Well, it is DEFINITELY working. The crazy part anyway.

"Are you ready for school?"
"YES--GEESH--I TOLD you that already!"
"You have ALL of your books in your bag?"
"YEEEEESSSSS! I did it last night like  you told me to."
"Get your sneakers and socks on and get your coat, hat and mittens."
"IIIIII  KNOOOOOWWWW." (Why isn't someone BEATING this child? Because they will take him AWAY from me? For how long?)
Do you, though? DO YOU KNOW? Because after saying these words forty-seven times and meeting with such obvious disdain, I would really rather not have to revisit it.
The two homeless girls I call my daughters are as dressed as they are going to be (no offense to the homeless--they dress in whatever they can find to stay warm and healthy. My daughters dress in whatever they can find that will match the least and will be the smallest and rattiest.) and head out the door. Focus on Brayden. The child who "....KNOOOOOOOOWWWW"s what he needs to do and has done it--only he hasn't. DONE it. Or ANYTHING I asked him to do. Girls in car, Brayden STANDING on the coffee table. Shoeless. Sockless. BOOKLESS. But he DOES have on gloves. At least he's helpful.

THIS is the same child who tells his teacher that he is late every day because of the GIRLS. He has the audacity to ROLL HIS EYES and SIGH about how crazy our mornings are because of THE GIRLS. At this point I have to talk myself down from the ledge. THIS is why we hear stories of poor children harmed by mean and angry grown ups who should be locked up for good. I always wondered what those horrible people were thinking to harm a sweet child. NOW I know. "I get to smack the s&^% out of this little brat AND go somewhere to sleep a solid five hours (AT LEAST) and eat a meal (of ANY kind) that wasn't prepared by ME?! Sign me up!"

Oh--I  know you are all thinking that I am a horrible person and I FEEL like a horrible person right now, but you cannot deny that you have had the flicker in your brain before--ESPECIALLY if you have a sassy-mouthed child who has simply won. At this point, there is nothing (rational) I can do, so I simply say, "I am leaving. You are welcome to come with me, but I am DONE" and walk out the door, leaving it slightly ajar for him to follow. Only he DOES NOT follow. I turn the car on and tell thing one and thing two to buckle up please. They both start to cry. "What about BRAYDEN, MOMMA?! We can't LEAVE him!" This from the child Brayden throws under the bus no fewer than ten times a day.

"I don't ylike da way I feewul ywight now, Momma! I don WAAANTA yeave Byaden awlone! Who wiwull take CAWER of him?! I don ylike you so unhappy, Momma! I don feewul happy in my HEART!"

Oh, Addie! I don't feel happy in MY heart, either! Still nothing from the house (unless you count the slamming of the door). He of course is calling my bluff. Like he has done for AT LEAST four of his almost eight years. I obviously can't LEAVE him. Of course, I can't NOT leave him now. The girls are now wailing and I feel like the biggest child abuser ever. "Pwease, no, MOMMA" is flying around the car  and my head is going to EXPLODE. I pull down the driveway, hoping the child will at least poke his head out the door. Nothing. I inch around the corner (we are on a corner lot) so that I can turn the car around, but can still see the house. I finally decide that I will pick him up and CARRY him to the car and he will be in his room after school. This seems reasonable (thinks the mother who stormed out of her house because her almost-eight-year-old won again--because "reasonable" is her strong suit...). I get out of the car and open the door to my bawling son throwing himself into my arms. THIS is how Jerry Springer makes his money.