A Whole Year

It’s been nearly a whole year since we suddenly became a family of five.

I think I can state with some confidence that through all the joys, heartache, triumphs and disasters – this right here is the grumpiest I’ve ever been in my life.

Just when I’m at home though.

I don’t quite get it; I’m extremely pleasant at work. I occasionally feel a mild annoyance towards people who can’t fill out a form correctly and subsequently make my job more time consuming and difficult. But even that doesn’t really phase me. I just get on with my day, smiling and sociable, and then I go home.

That’s when the grumpy starts.

Maybe it’s all the noise.

The baby will sometimes overflow with effervescent spirit and it must be expressed in the form of shouts. It’s kind of cute by itself. But he’s shouting while the TV is on and someone’s practicing the guitar while someone else is banging on our snare-less drum set. The sonic barrage is no better on the first floor where someone has an iphone playing music as loud as the speaker can go. There is no escape.

Maybe it’s the dirt.

Somehow I didn’t realize that “clean the bathroom” translates to “wipe down the sink top and toilet seat and call it a day.” Yeah, uh, no. In other news, sweet lord, the bathtub is BROWN! Soap scum is really hard to get off when it is left to frolic for two months (by the way, a good way to remove it is to spray on a mix of warm white vinegar and blue dawn dishsoap, let sit for two hours, then dust on a little baking soda and scrub with all the rage in your heart). And really, why should I ever, EVER, need to say the words “do not leave dirty diapers open on the CHAIR”? Oh but I have said them. Twice.

Maybe is the constant need for help.

I use the word “need” really quite loosely. Subtraction can often be accomplished using a calculator and the bug spray is in the linen closet right where, coincidentally, it ALWAYS IS. Also, my help is not needed to find that one thing in the fridge when I am in the living room and you currently have your head, hands and eyeballs right there in the kitchen. I messed up my back last weekend (I thought it might be gardening related, but looking back it may have something to do with ripping apart cardboard boxes with my bare hands while growling “hulk smash”) and while I was lying flat, totally incapacitated, a young person comes in asking if I would come to the kitchen and show them how to use the toaster. Really? The toaster? The most remedial of all the home appliances? It’s really too bad I’m such a grouch; I missed a golden opportunity to sing the Toast song (“take a piece of bread/put it in the slot/push down the lever and the wires get hot/you get toast/YEAH TOAST”).

You probably already figured this out for yourself: I’m a bitch.

This is not to say that they aren’t really good kids. They are kind and respectful and an invaluable help with the baby. They’ve never gotten in trouble at school or with the police. So I should really count my blessings. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure the next time I pull out a pot to start dinner and find that someone has lovingly burned food onto the bottom of and put away without washing, I. Will. Lose. My. Mind.

Sigh.

I’ve been following the coverage of the humanitarian crisis on our border as thousands of kids are trying to escape the violence they were born into. I tell my husband how much I wish I was down there, doing something. Anything. All those frightened little kids.

He gently reminds me of the two kids from Central America snatched out of poverty a year ago. Right here in the chaos of our house is my tiny part in saving the world. It’s not enough, but it’s not nothing either.

Maybe I should try to yell at them a little less.

So do you ever want to throttle your kids or are you just, like, a way better person than I am?