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Language Log

Tuesday, Aug. 15, 2017 - 2:12 p.m.

We go to park. Within 5 minutes Q decides it's "boring" and we leave to go to another park. Within 1/4 mile of our house they start fighting ferociously over her iPad. I am livid at both of them for not having the goddamn ability to refrain from hitting each other. U kicks me when I go back there to tell them to stop. I take his shoes off.

I go into house to get water. He unbuckles to come yell at me to put his shoes on him. I go into car and he scrambles to get in. He can't buckle himself. I make him try; I start to back out. If you unbuckled, you can buckle, I say. Try it. You're not even trying. Q declares me a bad mommy. I say, you're right. Sorry. Maybe you can find another one somewhere.

Finally I buckle him and we go to the park. I put his shoes back on him. We are there 5 minutes and Q wants to go. I say no. We go to swings where I have to push them all. Q is 7, and can't swing herself in a swing yet, and I really resent it. I resent her for not even trying. For not having any independence and ambition or enough fortitude to think about swinging her legs long enough for it to develop into an automatic motion. "My legs are tired" she says. She hasn't even moved them. I swallow my thoughts: she is fat and lazy and is going to get fatter and lazier and whinier because she doesn't have a spine to do what has to be done. I kind of despise her. I love her ferociously and my empathy is like an ocean; I am filled with disgust and despise her. All at once.

It is hard to push her because she is big now and when I do it she cries. She asks me to push her and then when I push her hard enough to get her going, she cries. We leave. Everyone is mad at me again for some reason. They tell me again I am not a good mother. I am inclined to agree.

I should never have been a mother. I was right all along.

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