Someone on Facebook posted a link to a page called Shitmykidsruined.com, with the comment "hilarious!" I went to take a look, running low on vagina humor that day, and honestly, I could not decide between nausea and rage. So i went with both. Picture after picture of child-caused destruction--children cutting their own hair, children ripping apart the toys of mere acquaintances, children barfing on their parents. As it happens, I have experienced all three of these things, and many, many more indignities documented at shitmykidsruined.com. But I personally did not find any comfort in the camaraderie of the tormented parent. I think I have reached the end of my tolerance for torment. I don't like children anymore.
Now before anyone calls the Department of Social Services, let me say that OF COURSE I love my children, and they are well cared for, doted upon and obviously brilliant and gifted at everything they do. Of course they are. I wouldn't have any other kind. But when they are very young, there is a level of capitulation that must take place in order to survive parenthood. You KNOW your shit is going to get ruined, so you hide it. Cabinet doors are locked. The toilet bowl is inaccessible. Stairs are blocked off, poisons carefully housed in high cabinets. No glass chachkes or decorations of any kind. Anything that can be destroyed will be. So you avoid what you can and clean up after the disasters you didn't anticipate. And you believe that it will go away as they get older.
Now HERE is why i don't like kids anymore. They are older. And they still touch my stuff. They TAKE my stuff without asking. They break stuff and hide it. And then lie about it. My vibrator was left running in the drawer (it has since been moved, but it was ALREADY HIDDEN) and my pitiful amount of weed was embedded in the bedroom rug. E-mail is read, because they "thought it had something to do with me." In short, they have absolutely no respect for anything that is mine, because I simply don't exist. I mean I don't exist as an entity separate from each of them. Thus what is mine is theirs, and they literally don't get why I pop a vein when they go in my purse. My shrink tells me this is a sign of bonding, that they feel that I am simply an extension of them. And I have to say, after so many years of being an extension, I am kind of done. And, incidentally, they do not do this to the husband's stuff, just to mine. Which pisses me off ever more.
Obviously, I am not done with parenting, but I am DONE with understanding.DONE with complete and total sacrifice. I am no longer going to say it was MY FAULT for not barricading the door to the Sugar Shack when I find grubby fingerprints on my new bass. Or a million other absolutely, completely and totally CLEAR statements of HANDS OFF, JUNIOR. I am not totally sure how to address this without resorting to no Age of Mythology for the rest of Medium's life, but I am sick of the wordless, tearful rage I feel when something is broken/used/left for dead AGAIN. Suggestions that do not involve physical violence are appreciated. But I suspect, most depressingly, that there is no way to address it, short of banishment from my kingdom.
I recognize that I sound like a terrible mother, and if I do, so be it. But being a parent has so many sacrifices, sacrifices in ways that I could not ever have imagined, that the millimeters of independence I regain as the kids age are even more painful when they are turned into a pile of glittery eye shadow powder all over the bathroom sink. Yes, I entered into this parenting thing willingly, and I am glad to be here. But not every minute. Not all the time.
I want my own fucking bathroom. Give me that, and I swear I will stop complaining.