September 18, 2011

Weekends with The Boy: My Preview of Hell

Weekends at the Cleaver Compound have sucked for the past two months.

We need year-'round, seven-day-a-week school for my mental health.

The Boy is outta control. 

I'm dead to him, he says.

If only I could be so lucky.

Weekends are a whirlwind of cursing, insults, one-finger salutes and storming out of the house.

He is out there right now, in the middle of a storm. I think a neighbor took him in - a neighbor who is raising five granddaughters, four of them teens.

It's a regular hormone fest.

I'm sure he'll be banished from their house any minute now.

I can't control what he does, he says.

Apparently, he's correct.

He's always going to be better than me, and I better deal with it, he says.

Like I ever thought I was better than him. More mature? Definitely. 

Less out of control than he is? The final vote hasn't been tallied on that yet.

Last night, for the first time ever, I didn't like him...not one bit.

God help him, because I am the last member of his fan club here.

I surrender. My bag of mommy tricks is empty.


  1. sorry to hear you are having a rough time. Hope things get better soon.

  2. Oh man. I am so sorry. That has got to be the hardest thing ever. I wish I could give you some type of ideas. But I can't. Just know that I am here.

  3. I just want to give you a big hug. Glass of wine. Something! I'm so sorry you're going through all this.

  4. I'm so sorry that you are going through this. Hugs to you.

  5. I've admitted that I don't like one or two of my children at one time or another. Some are harder than others. Love and like are not even related. I'd lay my life down for them even on the worst days. But I don't always like all of them.


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