I don’t give a shit if you are late or just inconsiderate. I’ve had this civic probably since before you were born, and I don’t care how close you get to me with your monster truck – I am NOT going to hurry up.
So why don’t you just back the hell off?
Kthanxbai.
This post captures the essense of the Birthday That Was.
Hooray for Sunday, day of rest. The end of the weekend, when you can lie in bed until sheer embarrassment finally drives you from your sheets, and the coffeepot stays warm all day long as you dawdle over the paper. What to do with the long, lazy hours stretching before you? Maybe make some french toast out of croissant bread, maybe take a little stroll around the neighborhood, maybe curl up on the couch and plow through a good book from beginning to end?
Go ahead and open your eyes from THAT pleasant little dream, dipshit, because you’ve got CHILDREN now. Hop to, because just like Lionel Ritchie those diapers have been partying all night long. Perhaps you should have spent more of your pre-parenthood Sundays reveling in the fact that your mornings never included pre-dawn scrotal fold poop-shrapnel mining duty, but NO, you were too busy ramming croissants in your french-hole to appreciate your sweet, sweet, feces-free freedom.
Ah well. Hindsight, 20/20, etc.
There’s more, it’s all here. And no, I’m not officially whining about my birthday. Just marvelling at how they change over the decades.
Again, this morning, for about the ninth time in a week, my son and I
blew up at each other.
(Yesterday was the exception)
On the one hand, I feel like he is deliberately baiting me by saying
or doing things that I’ve already made clear are not acceptable.
On the other hand, it is becoming more and more apparent that it’s not
him, it’s me.
Perhaps I’m really being too harsh, too demanding, too strict. There
are some things that are important, and there are other things that
are just annoying, and I think I’m dwelling too much on the latter.
One thing for sure: something’s gotta give. If we fight like this,
daily, when he is barely 10, can you imagine when he’s 15? I can’t.
I don’t think we’d both be living under the same roof, if this keeps
up. The daily fights, I mean. Certainly sooner rather than later my
wife would step up and say “shut the fuck up and get the hell out.”
Zen time: You will not be punished for your anger; you will be
punished by your anger.
*deep breath*
It’s up to me to make this work.