Two of my brothers are married. One of them has managed to raise adorable and well-behaved children. The other one, whose kids are now in my house, has raised monsters. This is hard for me to understand, since my brothers were raised by the same parents; I guess the difference is my sisters-in-law. I can see that.
I think I had a total of eighteen hours of sleep last week. Yesterday, I was walking down the stairs at work, and I was tempted to just sit down on them and cry out of exhaustion. I was really looking forward to getting to bed early, and sleeping in today.
A wrench was thrown in these plans when my brother took f-o-r-e-v-e-r to come home last night, and we were waiting for him before dinner. Not that I’m the most cheery person in general, but when I am sleep-deprived, I can be extremely short-tempered. Six screaming banshees do not help matters. And having my parents attack me doesn’t help, either… I mean, excuse me for being tired when I haven’t slept enough in weeks. If anyone knows how my mom’s sniping that I wasted money / X years in therapy is at all constructive or relevant to the situation, please enlighten me.
And my mom has a cold. She is coughing up a storm, which is incredibly irritating, but I’m not complaining about that, because it isn’t her fault. What is her fault is that she usually doesn’t cover her mouth when she coughs. I’m a bit of a germophobe. Six little boys are bad when it comes to that; coughing this way is too. In fact, I think I’m getting sick. Thanks, Mom. (She always did give me the good stuff, though — migraines, heart palpitations, things like that.)
Oh, my plans to sleep in today weren’t exactly successful, either. I was awakened bright and early by the incredible noise level. How is it even possible for such small people to engender such a racket?! Ear plugs + two pillows + two blankets over my head = near-suffocation but falling asleep again. I think my sleep total was the equivalent to three nights’ sleep from last week. And I am still tired.
I know that nobody likes to hear someone else complain all the time; contrary to appearances, I actually don’t complain all the time. At least, not out loud. I’ve been conditioned enough to know that nobody gives a crap, and that even if someone listens to me, it will just be so that they can ream me out afterward about what a horrible person I am for feeling the way I do. Okay, fine, I’m a horrible person. I get it. I know that.
But I still can’t deal with all this noise. It is way, way too overstimulating for me. I find it very ironic that my mom can be so … understanding of my nephews’ being total brats, yet be so intolerant of her own children. No, it’s not because they’re younger; if that was it, it would make sense to me. It was the same way when I was the kid, and my siblings concur that the same is true of their childhoods; everyone else was always right, and we were always wrong.
So I’m supposed to put on a happy face and ignore the fact that I can almost physically feel the germs here crawling under my skin and doing a happy dance (yep, very OCD; and no, I do not have OCD) to the tune of the racket in this house. Maybe it makes me sound crazy, but when I have already felt like a guest and an interloper in my own house for the past month, for me, this situation borders on claustrophobia. There is literally nowhere I can go to get away from any of it for a few minutes of “quiet time,” and this house is not a small one. The din is just too great to escape.
But then again, I am crazy, after all, so it wouldn’t matter, since I have my own racket in my head. At least I can slap myself silly over it, though, because that wouldn’t be child abuse.
Disclaimer: heavy doses of sarcasm prevalent throughout. Disperse them as you will, though they may not be in the places where I intended.