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At the end of my rope, I say to Marcus, “Throw on a pair of shoes and go outside.” From the general direction of the kitchen, I hear a thud, then an “ow!”, then a thud, then another “ow!”. This goes on for a minute or so.

“Mom, you can’t throw on a pair of shoes. It’s impossible.”

I hate the park. I hate being the only adult there under 40. I hate being asked what my rates are. I hate overhearing the conversations about Tastefully Simple and Mary Kay and Tupperware and Avon and Pampered Chef and being invited over to look at catalogs because there’s so much to buy that surely something will interest me.

I hate the long lines of minivans that are all shine and sparkle and not a one of them with a model year earlier than 2002. I hate the looks I get when I buckle the kids into my 1984 Volvo station wagon. “Wow, I didn’t know cars that old were safe for kids to ride in!”

I hate the questions. I hate the snide cutdowns that tell me that homeschooling is for freaks. “Oh, you homeschool? I couldn’t do that. Too disciplined.” If by disciplined you mean work I’m willing to do, gosh, yeah, you’re right. I hate the comments about them acting like children. “Oh, they’re not on Ritalin? But they’re so high-spirited! How do you manage?”

I hate the lines of Dora and Spongebob-clad kids, with their McDonalds lunches and no concept of tag or hide-and-seek. I hate that Rebecca gets cut down because she’s not wearing fucking Disney Princess gear. “You don’t match, so you can’t play with us.” Or worse, “You don’t match, so you have to be the bad guy.” I hate that having an imagination is a sin. “I’ll be Princess Becca, and this is my horse, Marcus,” is met with, “That’s not a real Disney Princess.”

I hate telling my kids that Halloween is off limits because our neighborhood isn’t really a trick-or-treating one. I hate that every other little girl in Rebecca’s gym class is going to be an angel or a princess or Cinderfuckingella, and she gets weird looks because we don’t celebrate the over-commercialized holiday. I hate that my kids lose the argument of whether a fall fair with hayrides and huge slides and smashing pumpkins and apple cider is just as good as buying a costume and being given candy by strangers.

Some days, I could just cry.

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My grandmother (to whom I owe thank you notes, yes, yes, must write thank you notes) sent Rebecca a package of four little mirror/makeup compact playthings with a sticker where the makeup would be. I headed upstairs to take care of chores while the kids divvied up the loot.

When I came back downstairs from folding the laundry, both of them were on their backs on the carpet racing lights across the ceiling. “Look, Mom, a video game on the roof!”

How to shoot a handgun accurately by Massad Ayoob. [See also]

It cleans! It washes! Best of all, it doesn’t break the bank to buy!

Ingredients

(ingredients)* 6 C water

• (amount) { } % %(ingredient)one third of a bar of Fels-Naptha soap, grated fine
• (amount) {1/2} C washing soda, not baking soda
• (amount) {1/2} C borax
• (amount) { } % %(ingredient)2 gallon bucket with a lid
• (amount) { } % %(ingredient)hot water

Procedure

(procedure)# Mix Fels-Naptha soap in a saucepan with 6 C of water. Heat on low until dissolved. Stir in washing soda and borax. Continue to stir until the mixture thickens, and then remove from heat.

1. Add one quart of hot water to the bucket. Pour in soap mixture, and mix until completely combined. It should be a light yellow color. Fill the rest of the bucket with hot water, and mix well.
2. Set aside for 24 hours, or until mixture thickens. Use {1/2}-1 C of mixture per load of laundry, depending on size and soiling of load.

I feel like crap. I did not have a good morning.

I overslept and then woke up and gulped down a cup of coffee and grabbed the kids and headed off to the grocery store at 8:25 and arrived at 8:30 to stand in line for 40 minutes for the flu shots that were slated to start at 9:00 but really started at 8:30 because the line started to form at 8:00. I was the only person under 50 there—so nice because the older people grumble about how I shouldn’t be getting a priority flu shot and I feel like I should wear a huge red sign on my chest that says “I HAVE ASTHMA” in big letters so that I do not get the third degree from every person after me in line that is annoyed at my presence.

After getting the flu shot and the pneumovax and thus making both arms hurt at the same time and buying doughnuts because the kids had behaved and driving home and bringing in the kids and doughnuts, my necklace chain fell out of my sweater sans pendant that I’ve been wearing since I was twelve. So the kids ate their doughnuts while I combed through the car and raked the driveway and then I drove us all back to the store and wandered through the parking lot and found my pendant, except the amber had been crushed against the asphalt and so I drove it over to the jewelry shop that I’d swear is a front for the Russian mafia except they at least said they’d try to replace the amber and that’s a really small job as the pendant has way more sentimental value than anything else and I’m surprised they’re willing to try since the job will pay less than $100 and it’s funny that the shop is always empty and anyway.

What a ball of suck.

My arms hurt. Both of them.

BIGGER BALL OF SUCK.