Please send angels quick. I'm about to strangle my son.
Yes, I am writing this letter to you out of extreme frustration. Yes, I realize this seems to be a pattern. But I fully believe that you should completely understand and be most empathetic to my cries for YOU ARE THE ONE WHO MADE THE LITTLE MONSTER.
I realize this may sound harsh, however, you may not think so if you were to tally up all the things this child does, things he gets into, ways he frustrates the freakin' daylights out of me. I can only take so much of major messes, uncontrollable peeing (and occasional pooping) on carpets and furniture (like the peed computer chair I am sitting on and despite the towel I have wadded up that it's still seeping through), the chewed on, broken, stabbed, or dismantled multitude of items that are scattered about. Thankfully he has not thrown any electronic device of real value in the tub. Yet.
I'm at a loss. I don't know what to do. I can only beat him so much, Time Out's are pretty much a joke, spending more time with him doesn't seem to help, "ignoring bad behavior" is tantamount to just letting him get away with it, and I just can't lock every damned thing up.
So please. Please send angels. Or lightening bolts.
It really is too much. It's just not ok for a mother to not even like her child. And I'm afraid that is happening. So see, you really really need to listen to this plea. Because today, I would be utterly grateful if gypsies carried him off. And if given a chance, I may even have to arrange it.
Seriously.
Me.
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