1. Scratching your back.
This is all that I can find right now. From someone who picked them up at 12:40 from school with all the best intentions (including a stockpile of food necessary for two boys who grow a couple of inches every hour) I find myself at 3:15 contemplating whether crushing up some Xanax into their dinner is illegal, and if so, why?
The problem is that I never had siblings, so I don’t know what’s normal. I’ve never hung out with eight and nine year old boys either, and maybe they’re all like this? Hypersensitive, dramatic and think farting is hilarious. I’m pretty sure it’s a tick on the third one, but I suspect that the first two may be a case of nurture vs. nature.
An example of things Samson says to me about his brother:
“Mommy, I’ve been taking his crap for years, and I can’t take anymore. I JUST CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE.”
You and me both, kid.
David on his brother:
“Why does he hate me so much? I just want my brother to love me. I FEEL LIKE I’VE MESSED UP MY LIFE.”
You’re only nine, you’ve got thirty more years before you mess up your life like mommy has.
I am completely ill-equipped for any job that requires me to make others see reason. They are 8 and 9 and I cannot convince them to calm the fuck down, because every time they turn around they have annoyed me so much that I am not the fuck calm. They live on a hill in a lovely house (okay some shit is broken in the house, but still) with a 180 degree view of the ocean, and they are still ungrateful, but I don’t want to make them feel like selfish little brats, because I think pain is relative and shouldn’t be minimized. I cannot laugh at them, because when I was a kid I was laughed at and it made me feel like no one gave a shit. I cannot overreact because my grandmother overreacted to my every thought and feeling like it was a Malibu fire alert. And I cannot react neutrally because I don’t happen to have any Xanax.