This Old House

I know I’m not alone. I know this because I’ve heard other people’s stories, some of which are far worse than anything I’ve documented in my little blog entries. But for the past few weeks (really since summer ended), I can’t help but wonder if my children want me to despise them, or if they do what they do for their own pure, misguided idea of enjoyment.

Can similar families actually sit down and watch a TV show together without it turning into a contact sport? Can they eat dinner without being interrupted by bodily noises? Can they go a week without their children breaking things out of anger, stupidity, or to get attention? If the answer is yes, then I guess I’m doing something wrong.

Tonight as we were cleaning up after dinner, Justin and Alex thought it would be funny to put a piece of an uneaten dinner roll into a plastic grocery bag and squish it all up. I didn’t even know what was in there, as they were just running around and being weird. When I realized what they were doing, I took it from them, and threw it into the garbage. They quickly retrieved it, and then disappeared to their room. A few minutes later (that’s all it takes), I went to investigate, and discovered they had replaced the bread with strawberry Jell-O. Red strawberry Jell-O loose inside of a plastic bag, whose structural integrity had been compromised because of all the squeezing they had done while exploring the texture of both the bread and the Jell-O. And they had run around all over the house with it, resulting in splatters of bright red strawberry Jell-O throughout my living room, kitchen, and their bedroom.

There is rage pent up so deep within my body that one day, without warning, I will snap, and tear my house apart room by room because I’m so angered by what devastation my four children have left in their wake. One day I will start ripping up soiled carpet, tear down broken doors, rip out fixtures, pull down blinds, bust out drywall, and gut everything else that they have ruined. It will be me, a utility knife, and a sledge-hammer. So when you see shit starting to pile up out on the lawn, probably best not to come near, because there’s no telling what I’ll do when I’m done.

So that’s something to look forward to.

Also Cameron and I got into a debate in the car later on about which is better, the original Simple Minds version of Don’t You Forget About Me, or the cover by the cast of Victorious. You can probably figure out who took which side. What is wrong with these kids?

© Jennifer Alys Windholz, 2012


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