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Language Log

Saturday, Oct. 19, 2019 - 1:10 p.m.

Q and U in a fight. No matter what I say or do they won’t stop calling each other names, taunting each other, hitting each other, threatening each other’s things. I let them go at it and make U some fried bananas because maybe that would distract him and WHAT THE FUCK ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO DO. Other parents would yell “go to your room right now young lady!” And that would be that, but it doesn’t work with them.

Q goes to her room eventually. I give U his bananas. My nerves are on edge and I’m angry because literally nothing makes me feel like a bigger failure than when my kids refuse to even consider NOT being mean to each other. Like I am responsible for this, right? I shouldn’t be letting it happen but I suck too bad to prevent it.

The bananas aren’t as brown as usually because I cooked them over a lower heat because I was completely distracted by the fighting and my own efforts not to say terrible things to them in an effort to get them to stop. That’s my instinct: inflict emotional pain to control them. I don’t want to give in to it. I give U his bananas and he starts getting mad because they aren’t perfect. I’m verging on losing it completely. He calls me mean and I have no desire to help him anymore. He’s screaming at me to fix the bananas. I head upstairs saying I don’t care what he does with them, I’m mean, RIGHT. Slam the door. He’s screaming and now E is wailing abo it how I scared him. Everyone is crying and here’s my dilemma: I can’t go down because I have em I go self knowledge to know I will say bad things and maybe throw things. If I stay up here I’m withholding affection and care, also abusive. Abuse A or abuse B? What’s it gonna be, kids? Every door rattle and whine I hear from down there pushes me back to the edge, makes me wanna scream.

Parenting specialists: YOU are the adult. Act like one, go take care of them and don’t yell.

Me: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA IF I fucking could don’t you think I would. Don’t you think so?

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