Things are better than they used to be

D. is gone for about eleven hours a day. Sometimes twelve or thirteen, but mostly eleven. He doesn't travel all that much anymore. He used to be gone for two or three days every week, sometimes more. But now it averages less than two days a month. Things are better than they used to be.

Dinnertime tonight was the same as last night, but shittier because I made Peanut cry. He sits next to me at the table and he has a chewing problem. The problem being that he shovels food in like he hasn't eaten all day and then chews with his mouth open. And he sits next to me. He's hungry. I understand. We eat dinner too late. The boys are starving by five o'clock and I really should feed them then. But that means I make dinner twice, or D. has to reheat a meal and eat alone every night. Neither situation seems like a winner to me. So, Peanut is starving by dinnertime. And he shovels food in. And chews with his mouth open. It makes me crazy, and tonight I yelled. I yelled. He cried. I am totally fucking this up.

Last night, D. and I talked about career. He offered praise and encouragement for the marketing work I'm doing. Told me I don't need the acknowledgement of being hired for a full-time job. That along with a steady paycheck and someone to tell you "nice work," being employed by someone else also comes with its downside (see first paragraph). Reminded me that self-employment is where it's at because I can set my own hours and take vacation when I want and do the work that I WANT to do and still pick the kids up from school every day. And I cried. Because picking the boys up from school every day and being alone with them for four to seven hours is exhausting. I love the crap out of them, but they're exhausting and I am tired. I'm tired of cleaning the same messes over and over, and wiping poopy butts, and not sleeping through the night even though my youngest child is almost three. And I'm tired of yelling.

I walk around the house whispering to myself, "it could be worse....it could be worse....it could be worse...." It could be worse. So much worse. Everyone's healthy. We have enough, everything. Food, clothing, shelter, wine. We have enough. D. is employed, I have awesome clients, we have a CABIN for pete's sake. A cabin. I have friends, both online and in real life. I even had a friend this week who just stopped by for margaritas. That never happens anymore, and it was so nice. D. and I have gone through some rough shit in the last year and a half, but I think we've come out better for it. We talk more. We COMMUNICATE more (though it's still a work in progress). He's a much more involved father. And frankly, less of a dick. I like him so much more when he's not a dick. We have so much to be thankful for. I have so much to be thankful for. And I am, I swear.

But this day-to-day? It's wearing me out. Things are better than they used to be. I'm just still so tired.

About twenty minutes. Only slightly condensed.

There are approximately seven hours between picking the boys up from school and them passing out at night. This represents about twenty minutes. I'm not great at math, but I think that equates to this basic series of events occurring 21 times, every....fucking....day....

Peanut: Mom. They keep saying the "s" word.
Me, in the kitchen making dinner: Who?
Peanut: This song.
Me: Oh. Yeah. Don't listen to that.
Peanut: Okay.
Henny, coming downstairs: Mommy, I pee in my pants.
Me: Why did you pee your pants.
Henny: I dunno.
Me: Let's get you cleaned up. Moon, can you get some new pants for Henny?
Moon, rolling eyes: Urghhhhhh!!!!
Me: I know. Just help out, okay?
Peanut: What's for dinner?
Me: Greek salad with chicken.
Peanut: I hate that.
Henny: I heet that!
Me: You do not.
Peanut, poking and hitting Moon: Moon, play with me. Play with me! PLAY WITH ME!
Moon: Ow! Mom, he hit me!
Me: Don't hit your brother.
Peanut: He won't play with me.
Me: Of course he won't. You're hitting him.
Peanut: I want him to play with me.
Me: Nobody wants to play with someone who's hitting. Be nice.
Peanut: I don't want to be nice. I want him to play with me.
Me, bending over: He's not going to play with you if you're hitting him. Moon! Can you get some pants for Henny?!
Henny, hopping on my back: Piggy wide!
Me, falling over: No. No piggy ride. Get off of me. Moon! Get Henny some pants, please!
Moon: Urghhhhh!!!
D, calling on the phone: Gurgle gurgle gurgle.
Me: What, I can't hear you. You're breaking up.
Henny: I wan talk a Dad. I wan a talk a Dad. Lemme talk a Dad.
D: Gurgle gurgle gurgle.
Henny: I wan talk a Dad. I need talk a Dad.
Me: I can't hear you at all.
D: Gurgle gurgle gurgle.
Henny: I need talk a Dad!
Me: I'm going to go.
Henny: I need talk a Dad!
D: Gurgle gurgle bye.
Me: Dinner's ready. Come and eat guys.
Henny: I heet that.
Me: You don't hate that.
Peanut: I don't want any salad. I hate salad.
Me: Don't eat salad.
Henny: I don't wan chicken. I heet chicken.
Me: Don't eat chicken.
Henny: I spilled.
Me: Okay. I'll clean it up. Let me grab a napkin.
Henny: I lick it?
Me: No. Do not lick the table.
Henny: I lick it.
Me: Please stop licking the table.
Henny: I need salad. I wan scoop it.
Me: I'll scoop it for you.
Henny: I wan scoop it. I need scoop it!
Me: No. Let me do it. Here, here's a scoop of salad for you.
Henny: No. I need more. I need scoop it.
Me: If you eat all that I'll give you another scoop.
Henny: No. I wan scoop it. I can't eat all dis. It's too much.
Me: That makes no sense.
Peanut: Can I have a dessert?
Me: I do not even care.
Henny: I wan ice cream!
Me: Have ice cream. I don't care.
Henny: Can I have more ice cream?
Me: Don't care. Hey, we need to go pick up Dad from the train. It's raining.
Henny: I don't wan pick Dad.
Me: It's raining. We need to pick up Dad.
Henny: Can I bring my ice cream?
Me: No.
Henny: Why? I wan bring my ice cream.
Me: You can't take ice cream in the car.
Henny: I bring my ice cream.
Me: You're not bringing your ice cream.
D: Hi! How are you?
Me: Eh.
D: What's wrong.
Me: Just. You know. They're just.
D: Dinner smells good.
Peanut, running around corner: NAKEDSTUFF!!! NAKEDSTUFF!!!
Me: Where. are. your. clothes?!?!

Haitians totally need Shrinky Dinks

True story: my therapist yawned today. It was somewhere in between telling her about my kid's totally normal, average, uneventful birthday party and talking about how I STILL don't know what I want to be when I grow up. Okay, maybe it wasn't so much a yawn as a barely audible sigh, but I could tell I am boring the shit out of her and she's only still seeing me because I look like a dollar sign. And I'm only still going because I'm not assertive enough to tell her that I probably don't need to see her anymore (And if she's reading my blog, "Hi!" also, we should probably revisit my "fear of confrontation" issues).

Before going this morning, I asked friends on Skype to make up something for me to talk about because I am fresh out of material. The best anyone could come up with was to tell her that I eat toilet paper (thanks ANGIE, glad you guys are so creative). Aside from a general malaise brought on by six months of shit weather and raising three sons that make me want to eat Xanax like Altoids, I'm freakishly normal from a mental health perspective.  But that sigh?  That hurts.  Because therapy?  It's like a cocktail party.  I am there to entertain.  And eat all the pigs-in-a-blanket.

When she sighed, I knew it was time to up my game.  Haul out the big-guns.  Really blow her away with the depth of my insanity.  So, I blurted out, "Last week I paid $10 for Shrinky Dinks.  For Haiti."

Have I mentioned that I am shit under pressure?

"You bought Shrinky Dinks?  For Haiti?"  She wanted to kill herself right then and there.  I could tell.  But when I commit to something, I see it through.  So I spent thirty minutes telling my therapist about my hatred of the local Home School Association.  That's the PTA, by the way.  But here they call it the HSA.  Because it's apparently classier to use a name that makes NO FUCKING SENSE.

I hate the HSA for multiple reasons including their fund-raiser abuse, their ridiculous committees,  the expectation that every woman in town should want to put in 40 hours a week on meaningless projects for NO PAY, and the fact that it's a small-town social power play in the guise of "helping our over-privileged children."  I hate them because they use the meetings as an opportunity to make other women cry.  I hate them because last year at ONE SCHOOL (there are four in the district) they raised $110,000 through fund-raisers, of which the school got to keep $30,000.  The rest went to pay for the shitty chocolates and over-priced wrapping paper they made our kids pimp out.  I hate them because they're too crappy at math to realize that if each family sent in a check for $100/year they could do away with these stupid-ass fundraisers.  I hate them because since I got home from therapy, I've gotten three e-mails asking for money via new fundraisers.  (Except the one about the fundraiser at a bar.  I can get behind that).  But mostly I hate them because they made me buy Shrinky Dinks.  For Haiti.

My therapist might as well kill herself.  Or drink before our sessions.  Because I am going to ride this HSA crazy train for weeks.

How about you?  Is your PTA an objectives focused organization?  Or a social clique machine?  And does anyone else have one called the HSA?  What does that even mean?

P-Eu Strikes again

I have this "friend." She is European. That probably has nothing to do with anything, but people have tried to assure me that she's not really rude, she's just "European" and somehow therefore has different standards for what makes one an asshole.

I've written about my friend, the Pushy-European (P-Eu) before. We have an almost three year history of her putting me in uncomfortable situations that violate my boundaries. I even succeeded in passive-aggressively breaking up with her shortly after Henny was born.

But, we live in a small town. And Peanut likes P-Eu Jr. And I had a shitty, shitty, really rough patch in my life last year which resulted in huge amounts of anxiety, introspection, and some major life changes. It's an ongoing process, that will hopefully result in me being better as a person and us being better as a family.

Somehow, somewhere in the midst of the super vulnerable time that was last year, P-Eu reappeared. And I let her. Because I was not in a place to turn down anyone's gesture of friendship. And because Peanut likes her son.

They've played a few times. Not as often as P-Eu would like, but at a level of frequency with which I feel comfortable. Having not seen each other for a few months, a playdate was planned for today. Peanut was invited to P-Eu's house after school. I agreed. Peanut was excited.

As we pulled up in the driveway, Mr. P-Eu emerged from the front door to greet his children. Who were at that very moment arriving home from school. With their teen male babysitter whom I have never met or heard of before. As Peanut scurried into the house to play with his friend, I asked Mr. P-Eu if I should call P-Eu in 30 minutes or so to see how the playdate was going. Mr. P-Eu told me not to bother, as P-Eu wouldn't be home and he, himself, would be in the attic working. But not to worry, because the babysitter was there. The teen male babysitter whom I had never met or heard of before, and whom nobody had informed me in advance would be watching my child. Have I mentioned that I absolutely do not allow male babysitters because someone I care for had a horrible childhood experience with a teen male babysitter?

I sat in my car for a few minutes, trying to figure out a polite way to say "Oh, Hell no, Mr. P-Eu!" I tried calling D. to see if I was overreacting. I started to drive away, trying to convince myself that it was fine, not wanting to disappoint my son who was already in the midst of playing with his friend. About 30 seconds away from P-Eu's house, feeling pissed off and vomity, my mom called.

I told her the situation. She said, "Oh Hell no. You go back and get him right now." And I did.

When I got there, Peanut and P-Eu Jr. were on the second floor, hanging out P-Eu Jr.'s open, screenless bedroom window. I'm glad I went back. I have to break up with P-Eu once and for all. And I need to learn to trust my instincts at all times. And to make my boundaries clear and insist that everyone in my life honors them.

For (once again) reminding me of those things, I am grateful to P-Eu.

I'm still totally breaking up with her.

I hate age 11

Me: Hey, I have an idea. How about we go to the barber shop this afternoon and you can all get haircuts.
Moon: I don't like my hair short.
Me: I know. But you really need it cut.
Moon: I don't want it cut.
Me: Even though you wrestle with it every morning in the bathroom?
Moon: I just put that spray conditioner on and it's fine.
Me: Have you seen a mirror lately?
Moon: I want my hair long.
Me: Moon, I am trying so hard to let you express yourself. I know it's your hair and you should have a say in how it looks. But, ohmygod I hate your hair!
Moon: You just think boys should have short hair.
Me: Not boys. Just you.
Moon: I'm not getting a hair cut.
Me: It looks like you have a dead animal on your head.
Moon: I like it.
Me: You look like Phil Spector.
Moon: I don't want a haircut.
Me: I hate your hair.
Moon: I like it.
Me: Go get me a Q-Tip.
Moon: Why?
Me: So I can clean the wax out of your ears.
Moon: That's not fair.
Me: I don't care. I'm not having the kid with the poofy hair and the dirty ears.

Well, at least he's mastered his "R"s

Me, backing out of parking spot, nearly hitting a man on a bike who decided to whiz between cars:  Nice!  Stupid fucking guy on a bike.
Toddler:  Fah-ker bike?
Me:  No!  No!  Babies don't say that.
Toddler:  Fucker bike?
Me:  No, no!  Those are not words for babies.
Toddler:  Fucker bike?  Fucker bike?  Fucker bike!
Me:  Awesome.
Toddler, singing in a sweet little voice all the way home:  fucker bike....fucker bike....fucker bike

He talks. I'm not sure what language he's speaking, but he talks...

Me:  So, what would you like for breakfast?
Toddler:  Ya Ya Yick.
Me:  Um...French Toast Stick?
Toddler:  Unh-Unh.  Ya Ya Yick.
Me:  Right.  French Toast Stick.
Toddler:  UNH-UNH!  Ya Ya Yick.
Me:  Okay.  So I'm going to go downstairs and get the French Toast Sticks.
Toddler, following me downstairs:  UNH-UNH!  UNH-UNH! Ya Ya Yick.
Me:  Hmm...how about if you show me what you want for breakfast.
Toddler, opening fridge and pointing:  Ya Ya Yick.
Me:  OH!  Okay.  Yogurt.  YO-GURT.
Toddler:  Yick Ya.
Me:  No, no.  YO-GURT.  Yogurt.
Toddler, nodding in agreement:  Yick Ya.
Me:  Yes.  Exactly.  Yick Ya.  Let's go upstairs and have your Yick Ya.
Toddler:  Foon?
Me, sighing:  Yes, I'll get you a spoon.

Oh. Ok.

Toddler:  Wheh dah-ee?
Me:  He's at basketball.
Toddler.  Oh.  Ok.  Wheh dah-ee?
Me:  At basketball.
Toddler:  Oh.  Ok.  Wheh dah-ee?
Me:  Daddy went to play basketball.
Toddler:  Oh.  Ok.  Wheh dah-ee?
Me:  Daddy's at school.
Toddler:  Wheh dah-ee?
Me:  Daddy's at work.
Toddler:  Wheh dah-ee?
Me:  Daddy's in the bathroom.
Toddler:  Wheh dah-ee?
Me:  Daddy's at basketball.
Toddler:  Oh.  Ok.  Wheh dah-ee?
Me:  I don't know, but I hope he's bringing home liquor.

What? This is totally appropriate for a trip to the playground

I am 5'4" tall and have been since the fifth grade.

When I was a Freshman in high school, I weighed 96 lbs and wore a size 8.

When I met my husband, I weighed 143 lbs and still wore a size 8.

I chalk it up to ass and titties.

At 143 lbs., my body was boomin'. I used to have these black pleather pants that I wore out to every party. They were double awesome because guys thought I looked super hot and wanted to hook up with me, and because they didn't breathe at all, my super sweaty crotch guaranteed I wouldn't let anyone go past second base. Total virgin-whore dichotomy. Dudes love that.

Of course, I thought I was fat.

My college roommate and I used to call ourselves the "porky girls."

In an attempt to develop an eating disorder, I learned how to make myself puke, and was disappointed when I couldn't stick to it. I was a total asshole to myself.

I dated this guy who was a foot taller than me. Once, I made a comment about him being such a big guy and me being such a small girl. His response, after looking me up and down, was, "Huh. You are not all that small." We broke up because he got crabs (not from me). Karma, bitch.

With my first pregnancy I gained 60 lbs. I took my regular, pre-pregnancy jeans to the hospital because I thought I'd be wearing them home. My mother, in her infinite wisdom, brought me a size 18 jeans because she thought I'd be wearing THEM home. We were both wrong. The 18's were too small.

I did lose most of the weight and got down to a size 14, which I maintained with very little variation up until about four months ago.

Thanks to stress and adrenaline making it necessary for me to work out in order to function with some sort of normalcy, the weight has started coming off. I bought myself some size 12 pants and donated all of the 14's to charity. Last month, I was trying on clothes and the sales clerk insisted I should try on a 10 because the 12's weren't fitting right. Not only did the size 10's work, they looked great.

Today, on a lark, I decided it would be funny to dig some of my pre-pregnancy clothes out of the dark recesses of the attic. This shit hasn't seen the light of day in ten years. For the most part, they're totally dated, not my style anymore, and honestly, not even nice clothes. I don't know why I'm still hanging on to them.

What I do know is that I don't care if it's 85 degrees outside today. My ass still looks hot in pleather.

And I'd like to thank Mother Nature for kicking me in the taint while I'm down

So, as I mentioned previously, things have been a little shitty (a lot shitty) for me lately. And I hate to sound like I'm having a huge pity party (I AM having a huge pity party), because I know I'm fortunate in a lot of ways. My kids are healthy, we have a roof over our heads, the bills are all paid, etc... But I have clearly done something to piss off the universe (Ahem, sorry god for peeing in all those church parking lots, but it's basically your fault for giving me a tiny bladder and not putting enough public toilets in locations that would allow me to not pee my pants on the way home from the bar, but I figure I should apologize just to cover my bases in case this is all just a case of bad pee karma).

So, anyway, you know how when things are bad, you always think, "well, at least things couldn't get any worse," but then they always do? Yeah. That. So, things got fucked up, and I wanted to think they couldn't get any worse, but I had a strong suspicion that they would. And they did. And then they did again. And then they got even worse. So, I pretty much figured THAT had to be rock bottom. And it basically was. Until Mother Nature decided to get involved. Specifically, in the midst of my anguish & grief, I discovered that the bearded clam is turning into a silver fox (for those of you who aren't big on euphemisms, I FOUND GRAY PUBES!!!!). Motherfuck. Seriously? As if I'm not feeling shitty enough, I need to have it pointed out that my vagina is getting old? Thanks, Mother Nature. Thanks a lot.

My uterus is a filthy whore

I'm about to talk, in graphic terms, about my period. So you might want to stop reading right now. Unless you're into that sort of thing, in which case, read on (and also, eww).

So, the last two months of my life have been fucked up. I don't mean "my car broke down and I got a bad haircut" fucked up. I don't even mean, "I found out my uncle Kevin is a transvestite hooker," fucked up. I mean FUCKED UP. Alien-abduction-with-anal-probes fucked up. Beyond-Dr.-Phil-and-probably-too-fucked-up-for-Jerry-Springer fucked up. F-U-C-K-E-D-U-P. I have been through some crummy shit in my life (haven't we all?), and am a super tough cookie as a result, but the last two months have nearly broken me. It's been that fucked up.

I'm down 20 lbs. from living in a near-constant state of adrenaline (yeah! skinny jeans), my vintage business and blogs are in the crapper because I can't focus on any one thing (other than how fucked up my life is....I can focus on every aspect of that ad nauseum) for more than 30 seconds in a row, and I suspect The Baby has set up a meth lab in the basement, taking advantage of my distracted state to pad his college fund with ill gotten gains (and really, thank God one of them realizes they can't ride this gravy train forever).

To summarize, my life is fucked up and my kid is cooking up Nyquil to sell to all the baby crackheads at playgroup.

Which brings me to the dirty slut that is my uterus. Because my body is super-sensitive to hormone fluctuations, I don't have my period AT ALL while I'm breastfeeding. Between 18 months of nursing and a 9 month pregnancy, the crimson tide hadn't made an appearance in over two years. Until my life hit the skids. Then, suddenly I find myself doubled over with cramps and bleeding like an East-Coast-Thug-in-the-middle-of-a-bi-coastal-rap-rivalry (sorry, Notorious was on HBO last night) from my girly parts.

As if moodiness, cramps, and raging adult acne weren't bad enough, the real insult came about 14 days later when I FUCKING OVULATED. I mean, getting my period sucked, but I totally forgot the basic rules of biology which dictate that a menstruating woman at the peak of her child bearing years is fucking FERTILE. Are you kidding me, uterus? I mean, seriously? You really think, at this point in my life, it would be a great time to GROW A PERSON? Sonofabitch.

In practical terms, it's not really an issue so much as an annoyance, as D. had a vasectomy (*ahem* D. jerk off in a cup and take it to your ball doctor's office to confirm the vasectomy actually worked because apparently I'm fertile again and I totally don't want to have *another* accidental pregnancy because I can't handle any more kids and as a 32 year old married woman I don't want to have to get a schmushmorshion *ahem*). However, based on our conception history, I think it's possible for me to get pregnant just by being in the same room as D. In Trekkie terms, my uterus is a Klingon Destroyer, and sperm are the Starship Enterprise caught in a biological tractor beam. (Heh. Klingons. Uranus. Heh.) Wait, what was my point again?

Oh yeah. My life is fucked up. My uterus is a filthy whore. And D. needs to deliver a cup of spunk to the ball doctor. Get jerkin'.

Someone should put me in charge of an advice column...for six year olds

At soccer practice...

Peanut: MOM! You see that kid over there?
Me: Which one?
Peanut: The one with the stupid hair. Right there.
Me: Okay, yeah.
Peanut: He just called me a sore loser!
Me: Are you a sore loser?
Peanut: No.
Me: Then tell him to bite you.

Aiming Low

Check out today's post over at Aiming Low:

Could I be more socially retarded?

At grocery store, have a fever, haven't eaten, feeling woozy...

Cashier: That's a real cute handbag!
Me: Oh, thanks.
Cashier: What kind of bags you like?
Me: Uhh, shiny ones?
Cashier: Shiny ones?
Me: Well, I guess I like a nice shoulder bag.
Cashier: I meant paper or plastic.
Me: Oh. Duh. Sorry. I'm kind of a retard.
Cashier: Huh.

And then I look around at all of the people bagging the groceries, and realize that in addition to being kind of a retard, I'm also a complete asshole.

Yeah, I'll probably tell her bad shit about you, too

I had my first counseling appointment today. Not because I wanted to, but because it was suggested by my midwife (i.e. she threatened to cut off my drugs unless I agreed to talk to a counselor....some crap about how post-partum depression can't be treated with medication alone...blah, blah, blah). Since I have another 17 years before my sons are grown, and Zoloft is cheaper than vodka, I went to the damn counselor.

When my mom found out about my appointment, she asked:
1: How'd it go?
2: What did you talk about?

What she really meant was:
1: You didn't talk about me, right?
2: What kind of crap did you tell her about me?

In fact, I believe my entire family is leary of me talking to a counselor for that very same reason. Nobody wants to eventually find out it's their fault that I'm bat-shit crazy. Or worse, find out that I'm perfectly sane and they're actually bat-shit crazy.

The reality is, I have a pretty good handle on what my "issues" are, and I'm only going to counseling because I want the drugs. Unfortunately, I have to come up with something to talk about while I'm there, which means everyone in my life is fair game. I have a few things in mind to discuss. Feel free to check for your name in the list below:

The Baby: Nipple biting, um, ow! And what's up with wanting your diapers changed all the time? It's like you don't know how to use the toilet or something.
Peanut: Booger wall. Poopy towels. Anus, anus, anus. You're a counseling goldmine.
Moon: Meh. You're cool ever since you quit humping the floor.
D: Oh, you know exactly what you did....
Mom: Three words...Make Your Ownie


I'm a little worried that my list isn't going to last very long, and I'll have to start making things up in order to avoid being "cured." If you have any stories of fucked up psychological issues that you wouldn't mind having co-opted for the sake of maintaining my drug habit, feel free to leave them in Comments.

Well, now that you mention it

Peanut: I have to pee!
Moon: I'm going poop. Get out!
Peanut: But I have to pee really bad. Get off the toilet.
Moon: I'm pooping!
Me, yelling from bedroom: Just pee in the tub.
Peanut: What cup?
Me: The tub. Just pee in the bathtub.
Peanut: Pee in Dad's cup?
Me, remembering that D. is spending the night at a hotel in the city with no kids to interrupt his sleep: Yes! Dad's cup!

Now I'm Principal Vernon

The second we got home from school today, the boys raced to jump out of the car and run in to the house, in a desperate bid to get to the computer first. They've been fighting since this morning about who would get to use my laptop to play Roblox after school today. I was going to let Moon play, as it was his turn, and I told him so. But as they raced toward the house, Moon decided to whip his backpack into Peanut's stomach in order to slow him down.

Me: Now you're not playing Roblox.
Moon: What? But he deserved it.
Me: No, you blew your chance. There was no reason for that, and now you're not playing.
Moon: Urgh!

With that, he threw his backpack on the ground and kicked it.

Me: What are you doing? Now you're grounded. No computer or video games for 24 hours.

Moon kicked his backpack and screamed.

Me: Two days. Do you want to keep going?

Moon: It's just not fair. He makes me so mad I just wanna do this!

Moon picked his backpack up again, threw it to the ground and then kicked it across the yard.

Me: A week. No video games for a week. Get yourself under control.

Moon: Arghh!!!! I hate him. Everything is his fault.

Me: You did this to yourself because you can't control your temper.

As soon as we got in the house, Moon ran up to his bedroom and slammed the door.

Me: Two weeks.

Moon started grabbing whatever he could find in his room and throwing it.

Me: This is ridiculous. Stop it right now.

Moon looked me in the face, and in defiance threw a toy across the room.

Me: A month. You may not play anything electronic for a month.

Moon, crying: Mom, I can't live.

Me: Seriously?

Moon waited for me to go downstairs, then slammed his door and resumed throwing things.

Me: Five weeks.

Moon threw things harder.

As I finish typing this, Moon is standing in the back yard staring at the sky because he has been banished from the house until he can get his temper under control. I'm hoping he'll be back in before dinner time, as I think it's supposed to get cold tonight, and he has a completely trashed bedroom to pick up.

Grandma, if you're reading this, when puberty hits, Moon is coming to live with you.