Last month I struggled somewhat with Young Ladrinka.
We all know how much I love him, but it seems that he has positioned himself in the role of the Grand Victim and it’s making me insane.
“You don’t know what my life is like,” he’ll say dramatically.
“What is your life like?” I ask. And he has to pause the Wii, put the bowl of ice cream down and let me know that his life is very unfair because he is the youngest.
“I get nothing. She gets everything that she wants,” he refers to his sister. Who at that moment was scrubbing the toilet bowl because she’s doing extra chores to earn some money for her trip to San Francisco. (She’d since traveled to San Francisco and returned. She’s in love with the city. Who could blame her.)
“It makes me fucking insane how he exaggerates everything,” I tell Husbandrinka and then I feel guilty, because I feel like I should embrace my children, just the way they are and love them.
And I do.
Am I allowed to say that when on my son’s birthday I looked at the clock and reminisced that ten years ago at this time I was in labor “going through pain and agony” and he says “that’s exactly how I’d describe my life” I feel, what’s the word? Fucking annoyed.
It makes me feel bad that there are times that my children annoy me, deeply. Feeling mad at them is uncomfortable, because although the love is unwavering the “shut the fuck up already” thoughts that go through my head make me wonder if they can hear them.
“How are the boys?” I ask a friend that I haven’t seen in ages about her 3 and 5 year old sons.
“Such assholes,” she says and launches into the latest.
I don’t judge her, not even a little, because I know just what she means.
But I judge myself.
Because if I admit to myself that what I’m feeling is normal, then maybe I realize that my wonderful, loving parents who doted on me their own child, also considered me a huge fucking pain in the ass. At least sometimes.