I'm thinking I should go on strike. I'm obviously a horrible parent, just a waste of time, I don't do enough and I don't care enough to do more, so I should probably stop doing anything. Why am I so worried about it all? It's not as if anything that I do actually makes a difference.
Tonight, while I was giving Bella a neb, BooBah went into the kitchen and dumped a gallon and a half of milk on the floor. I'm sure that some of you can relate when I say that this is the absolute *worst* time she could have chosen to do this; it's the end of the month. We are *completely* out of money. There are no food stamps, no WIC checks, there is absolutely *nothing* until Mike gets paid (and of course this paycheck is almost entirely allocated to paying the rent & phone bill, because if those aren't paid we get evicted and lose phone service, respectively). On Tuesday I used the last of the WIC checks and purchased 3.5 gallons of milk & 30 oz of cereal; tonight there's about a quart of Mike's (skim, not lactose-free) milk left in the fridge. That's it; the cereal was poured all over the living room and kitchen, and the milk... well, it's all gone, sopped up by towels which had finally been washed.
A few months ago I splurged and bought a laundry hamper. It wasn't terribly expensive or special, but it did have three separate spaces, contained by net bags, so that laundry could be put in & separated. The kids destroyed it, Mike threw out the pieces that he could find earlier this week. I tried to organize the family shoes, I bought an over-the-door shoe storage thingy. The kids never put their shoes into it, unless I holler about it. Then they complain and cry and whine when they can't find their shoes and I won't take them anywhere.
I buy food, I put it away in the cabinets; they climb, open things which need to be cooked first, take a bite (or don't) and then pour it all over the place, and I can only count myself lucky if some of it happens to land in the sink or in the trash. BooBah breaks eggs; she just opens containers of eggs in the fridge and carriest them into closets to crack and rub into clean laundry. BeanBean hides peanut butter and jelly in the storage closet. They pour things all over the carpet and then act shocked when I step in it and know it's there, as if the fact that the carpet absorbed it means that it's clean.
And to top it all off, Mike tells me that this is, ultimately, all my fault. If "we" had the kids on a schedule, none of this would have happened, I'm sure. Never mind that BeanBean deliberately jumped on my back when a) he *knew* that I'd been in pain for several weeks and b)I told him to stop because it hurt. Never mind that there is NO PLACE in this house which I can reach but which the kids can't-- anything that I can get to, they can also get to and anything they can't get to, I can't either. Never mind that *I* actually have suggested a schedule many times, and even attempted to implement them, only to be thwarted by Mike's complete and utter lack of cooperation or respect for said schedule.
Tonight I realized something for the first time. I really, truly understood how mothers could walk away from their children and their families, how they could just give up and *leave.* I've never considered this so seriously, it's never occurred to me to entirely give up, but that's where I am right now. I've given up on my sister, I've mostly given up on my mother, and I'm about ready to give up on Mike and the kids. I'm so f***ing tired of finding powdered pudding mix all over the floor, of waking up covered in jelly, of not finding out about spilled milk for weeks, until I smell rotting cheese in a corner, of not being able to walk down the hallway without stepping in something disgusting for more than a few hours, of not being able to walk at all because someone's making my back pain even less bearable than it was before.
I don't think I ask for much. I just want to be able to sleep sometimes on clean sheets, and to have those sheets stay clean for more than one night. I want to be able to walk into a room and not feel like I should turn and walk right back out. To cook a meal and sit at a table and eat it. It's not that much, is it? I'd really like it if my ears weren't always ringing, and if I didn't spend so much energy trying not to feel as angry as I do, trying not to scream. I feel like I walk around holding my breath all the time. It's depressing, it's demoralizing, it makes me hate my life and wish I'd never gone down this path. I just want to scrap this and start all over again.