The other day I was wiping down the bathroom, a regular job with 3 sons. Their enthusiasm for indoor peeing is high, as is their aim it would seem. I had almost finished when the phone rang, for me of course, so I answered it. On my return I passed Mr. G in the hall, running for the Wii game he'd paused. I turned the corner to smell urine--again--yet I had just cleaned the bathroom. Closer inspection revealed a fresh puddle by the toilet and yellow water in the bowl.
Yesterday I helped get bedrooms tidied so I could run a vacuum. Last night I climbed the stairs to tuck in my crew and opened Mr. G's bedroom door. He had taken the money from Life and Payday and scattered it everywhere. His room was clean for as long as he was at school for the day. Not a second longer.
I keep doing the same thing over and over again--tidying up after these knuckleheads, reminding them to brush their teeth, wear socks, finish homework. They can't go to the bathroom, eat or get dressed without leaving a mess in their wake and I'm so damn weary trying to keep a clean house. They wreck their toys and my furniture without a second thought. I never buy them trinkets or treats or favors because they have no regard nor does their appreciation last long until they're begging for more--bottomless pits. All three of 'em. Motherhood is a thankless task, full of boring repetition and my only reward it seems is when they show love because they want something else.
I didn't have kids because I want them to be happy. Heck, I didn't even have kids under the delusion that they'd make me happy. I had them because I thought I could raise good people and lately I feel like I'm failing.
The only question is whether to scream my head off at them or weep uncontrollably. Something's got to change here, but I can't figure out what--or how.
Only condolences and sound advice, reader. That's all I'm up for today.
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