Monday, March 12, 2012

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Just when I think the madness is normal, manageable, same-old...Kindsay pushes us to a new level.  I sometimes feel despair imagining the rest of my life dealing with this.  She's a teenager, yes, but there have been no improvements in her growth in the past few years, and that causes me a little anxiety seeing as how I'm always hoping she turns a corner of understanding.  We've hit a plateau.  How many times have we driven home the concepts: "don't touch the food in the fridge without asking" "don't walk around in your underwear" "don't eat in your bedroom" "don't make international calls on the cell" and so on...and yet on Sunday we had it ALL going on.  I'm tired, people.  Springing forward is NOT on my list of favorite times of the year; in fact, it is the title of my least favorite days of the year list.  Add the nonsense and I'm ready to drive off an overpass. 
So after $175 in calls to Jamaica have been paid to some unknown male that exhibited interest in my daughter until the harassment overwhelmed him to anonymity, I have had plenty more to pay for.  You know how rare it is for me to plan a nice, balanced meal?  It was Saturday and I took the meat out of the freezer.  I bought all the ingredients to quadruple the recipe because my kids love love love this particular meal.  Sunday afternoon and we come home from church to find the meat for the dinner on the center of the table in a bowl along with mashed potatoes and corn.  The table was set for five with all the necessary utensils.  My meat sat there, cold and uninviting.  I look over at the sink to see the large pan that fried up my meat in vain.  Defeated, I slumped my shoulders and sulked to the bedroom.  No dinner tonight.  Sure, there were other things...but you know when you have the perfect, comforting meal everyone looks forward to and it almost makes you feel accomplished all on its own?  Well that feeling was fried to a crisp in a pan and chucked in the trash shortly after.  I think Greg ate Hot Pockets and the kids had cereal.  I shamefully ate three of the buttery rolls intended for the dinner along with the rest of the cheese danish coffee cake.  Oh what I do to bring joy back again.  I then see the dog run through the room, wet, shaking her fur intermittently as she runs through the house.  Here comes Kindsay with a handful of formerly clean towels hollering to the dog.  I look over to find diarrhea in the corner of the room thanks to the other dog.  Neither dog was allowed in the house while we were out, and yet both were in with all their animal glory in their wakes.  Greg and I dry heave while we scrub various droppings of feces out of the new carpet and I cringe when the wet dog stops to shake it off a bit.  I threaten to rid our home of the dogs only to have my poor sons spend the rest of the day outside stroking their fur and lovingly tending to them.  Kindsay then brings down more than a few dirty dishes from her bedroom with her underpants up her rear.  She spilled a sticky substance on a comforter and had put it in the washer.  She poured detergent generously in every portal in the washer...the bleach bin, the softener bin, the prewash bin, etc. and put the washer on super hot and for an hour.  That was fun to find.  She then proceeds to torment us with her over-the-top volume voicings through the home about this and that nonsense like hearing someone talking on their cell at the top of his lungs in Target while you are trying to shop. You have no place in the conversation and yet you are subject to it just the same and unable to get away fast enough despite the fact that you desperately need something from that aisle yet haven't selected the item.  Greg and I are breathing the best we can during this very long Sunday.  We eat without enthusiasm, wander through the house in labored movements, and bump into walls deliberately trying to knock ourselves out.  I in no way do not appreciate our blessings and provisions provided by my Father in Heaven, but I sure would love to someday enjoy it without the exorbitant waste that fills my daily life.  I can't decide if I prefer her telling me off or taking my cash and burning it in my face.  Is one easier to deal with than the other?  Only I would know the answer to that, and I seriously cannot decide.  Lucky me...I'm sure I'll have plenty more opportunities to compare and contrast the two.