As I walked down the stairs, with a basket of laundry and almost killed myself on a backpack that was at the bottom, I wondered, briefly, if there was a drop off centre for unwanted children nearby. There is seriously no reason I can think of that we are still going through this "pushing" stage on their chores. I know it's supposed to happen. I know I'm just supposed to keep pushing through it. But what if it does kill me?
Homework and three chores a night is all I demand. Not ask, DEMAND. And without the attitude, if you please. I am really in over my head - and with the teenage years rapidly approaching, I can't help but think I might not make it. Maybe I'll be done in by haphazardly strewn shoes on the stairs. Perhaps it will be a car, or Lego. I could get myself tangled in one of my own housecoat ties that Hunter refuses to leave on my actual housecoat.
Or maybe I will forget how to breathe after one of the times I'm holding my breath to keep from screaming blue murder. Or, once I lose it, maybe I'll have an aneurism or a stroke. Heart attack? Definitely an option. After tonight, I know I might slip on soup that didn't quite make it into the toilet but somebody didn't see the need to wipe up. And don't even get me started about what else I might slip on in the bathroom that three young boys use all the time. The water stagnating in the tub might break my fall, or we could add accidental drowning to the list of possibilities - after I've fallen , knocked myself unconscious and landed head first in it.
Then of course there is always starvation. There's always a little hand out for anything I make for myself. Tonight it was buttered bread to eat with my soup. Maybe tomorrow it will be my whole plate. Oh yes, as a mother, I think there are plenty of ways to die a sudden death at the hands of my children. However likely, I happen to be aware of the constant danger and must be vigilant. I need to stay strong because I think I plan on running away after Hunter moves out.
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