I admit right now (to the three people who read my blog), that as soon as I dress the last person in my family and the front door closes, I'm taking my happy ass back to bed.  I NEVER go back to bed.  There's too much to do to even suggest it most days.  There's even more than usual to do today, but I honestly don't care.

My morning so far:

I stumbled out of bed at 5am nowhere near being coherent and stable.  I stepped on Sophie's tail, and it wasn't pretty.  It may take her minutes to snuggle up to me again.

The six year old was running around the house singing, "I was born in the U.S.A.!  I was born in the U.S.A.!..." at the top of her voice.  The teen boy is threatening her life.  I asked her where she heard that song and she said, "The Wolfe Brothers, mom, duh.  They came to our school.".  Somehow I get the impression I should have known this.

I finally got the evidence I needed to prove I'm the source of all the issues currently being projected by my children.  What was this evidence, you ask?  When the seventeen year old boy looked me in the eye and asked,

"How long do you microwave a poptart?"

Me:  You don't microwave a poptart!

Him:  Then how do you heat it up??

Me:  Oh.my.gosh. you're serious. (hysterical laughter)  The toaster on the counter.

Him:  Then how long do you leave it in the toaster?

Me:  (hysterical sobbing)  It'll pop up.

*exit stage left*

I honestly thought my homicidal rant and extreme physical exertion would make me feel better yesterday.  I was wrong.  I'm all raw nerve and emotion caged and agitated.  The coffee isn't even working as well as it normally does.

In the past Screw and I have always supported one another during these stressful times, and it always seemed like we hit overload at opposite times.  That was good because the stable one could always pick up the other's slack and be their support system.  But these days we hit at the same time.  This house isn't the best place to be when it happens.  Like now.

You think his way is better because he doesn't get terribly obnoxious or violent.  You'd be wrong.  I hate trying to read between the lines.  You never know he's pissed until it's too late.  At least with me, you know.  I become a smart ass.  It isn't too unusual to hear me throw something down the stairs.  At least I don't aim at anyone.

He was so pissed last night.  I wonder if he thinks I don't know it.  I'm heartbroken, and I just can't wrap my mind around the situation.  I spent the night crying between naps.  I'm so frustrated.

The seventeen year old:   He's an honor roll student and a football star.  We spent some time last night registering for his ACT for college.  He's typically lazy but not conceited.  He has a great sense of humor and a heart of gold.  He thinks there's no one on earth as cool as his six year old little sister.

The fifteen year old:  She's a straight A student and absolutely gorgeous.  Before dinner yesterday we worked on perfecting her back handspring for cheerleading tryouts this week.  Normally she's a social butterfly developing a bit of sarcastic wit she's undoubtedly picking up from me.  But puberty has temporarily turned her into a raving lunatic.  She has such a big heart.  She thinks her big brother hangs the moon and stars.

The six year old:  Brilliant in her first year of school and absolutely glowing with an eagerness for life that is unrivaled.  Big beautiful brown eyes and unbelievably smart.  Her wit and charm is my downfall.  She wants to be a big kid so badly, and she struggles with being her own little person and wanting to fit in with everyone else.  She thinks her twelve year old brother is the coolest person on earth to play with.

The twelve year old:  Born on Valentine's Day with the Casanova personality that's totally fitting for that birth.  He's a charmer with his big blue eyes and adorable freckles.  He's hitting puberty and developing the attitude that goes along with it.  He has a genius imagination.  I'm constantly telling him he's much more creative than Steven Spielberg ever dreamed of being.  He loves to write stories and is very much into medieval plots with knights and swords.  He'll swing a stick for hours in a fierce battle... but...

He's also failing the sixth grade, has serious anger issues, and I think he stold fifty dollars from his Dad's wallet two days ago.  You can see him clench his fists in anger if you even look at him sometimes.  He rolled his eyes right in front of me earlier this week when I told them all to clean their rooms.  He refuses to shower or even brush his teeth unless I threaten to do it for him.

I'm lost.  We've tried everything textbook to try.  We've tried everything our hearts suggest we try.  We've taken what we know about him and used that to come up with things to try.  We've approached it from angles like maybe he's feeling the pressure from two successful older siblings, or the pressure from no longer being the cute adorable baby of the family.  We've taken into consideration his age.  We've tried to minimalize it by saying it's not as bad as what some boys are doing and going through.  We've taken it completely serious and totally focused on him and what we can do for him.  We've hugged and kissed, punished, talked, and listened.

And it's only getting worse. 

I have no proof he took the money.  I don't want the proof.  But I look at the frustration in Screw's eyes, and it scares me.  I'm beginning to feel backed into a corner.  I just want this to go away.

I just got hit with something I don't want to think about and yet, here I am sitting down, knocked off my feet, thinking about it.  The more I think about it, the more I'm freaking out.  And with every increase in pulse comes a new wave of stomach churning anger.

I'm tired.  I'm no longer in the mood to play the role of the girl whose life sucks yet she manages to smile and kiss your ass, anyway.  I can hear the voices in my head plotting mutiny just because the terror I hold inside is unleashed upon them, and it's beginning to piss them off.

If I have to witness one more self-righteous, over-indulged, egotistical, selfish, conceited rant I'm going to vomit on the culprit right before I knock out their teeth.

"I don't read fiction.  You learn nothing from it. -- I don't buy designer handbags, what a waste of money. -- I'm such a bitch and proud of it! -- I'm a bastard because I had such a hard life as a child. -- I wouldn't be caught dead in clothes from the Gap. They're for fake snobs. -- Your opinion doesn't matter to me, but I know just what you need. -- I'm tougher than you! -- I'm unique! -- I'm not like everyone else. -- I'm wounded and tortured and odd and mysterious and dark. -- I'm hard to love but worth it! -- Break down my walls!  Save me! -- I can't listen to that guy's music because he sold out. -- I refuse to wear pink this year because everyone else will be wearing it! --  I refuse to be seen at Starbucks.  That's for yuppies trying to look rich. -- I'm so much better than you, but I'm insecure so stroke me until I'm well -- I would never wear that. They test on animals. --  I can't drink tap water. --  I won't drink bottled water. -- I'm a slut and proud of it!  It's my body, I'll do what I want with it! -- I can't eat carbs. -- I run 45 miles a day so that I'll always be beautiful --"...(on and on and on....)

Go ahead.  Stand there and rant against the man!  Say it!  Scream it!  Stand up for what you believe in!  The thing that makes you SO much BETTER and so DIFFERENT than everyone else.  Do it!  Let it out!!  LOUDER!!

And then look to your left and your right at all the people JUST. LIKE. YOU.  Guess what.  You've just proven yourself to be normal, dumbass.  Your stupid beliefs aren't convictions at all.  They're trends.  And guess who just won the biggest poseur award.

I rarely read anything but fiction.  I love, love, love Gucci and Coach.  I hate when I realize I'm being a bitch.  I am a total yuppie, and I'm absolutely addicted to Starbucks.  I'm only insecure when I'm PMSing.  My heart and mind are open books.  I'll wear whatever the hell looks hot on me, Gap, Abercrombie, or Target.  I bought a goth dress from Hot Topic that would probably make your man want to fuck me sideways.  I hate water, and worship anything with caffeine in it.  I'm a huge tease, an even bigger flirt, but I can count the number of men I've slept with on one hand - my choice.

If the fact that I'm secure in all my faults intimidates you that badly, go piss up a rope.  No need to feel threatened by me.  If you don't like me, don't talk to me.  If you don't want to read me I know there's a cute little button somewhere on your personal browser that will instantly shut me up!  OH the POWER!  I'm sure you'll let it go to your head.

And if you're one of the people I know and love and you're sitting there right now completely confused and wondering if you need to send men in white coats after me, I'm okay now.  Honest.  I love you.  It feels good to let it out.

All better!