Just in time for the holidays, my first bout of soul-crushing depression in a while. Thanks, brain, and fuck you, too!
To celebrate, I've written a short story (don't you worry: I may hate myself sometimes, but I'm not dumb enough to turn this story into fact. Seriously. No, I mean it.):
Load, rack, bite, pray, squeeze, end.
Did you like it? It's not as epic as Hemingway's "Baby Shoes", but it clocks in at one word fewer.
Anyway, I've not been very nice to Alastair these last few days. He's been sick, so I've been home with him, but that notwithstanding, he's continued to poop his pants, each time justifying it by telling me that either he was too busy to go to the bathroom, or he didn't want to bother me.
My responses have not made me proud, and it's weighing on my soul. We go through hours on end of perfect angel child, then he craps himself--but "just a little bit", which in his mind is perfectly acceptable because some of the adults in his life have been inconsistent in their responses.
But he's sick, too, so maybe he's not in such great control of his faculties. And that makes me inconsistent, which he uses to his advantage because he's really fucking smart.
I honestly don't know how other single parents do it. I keep thinking we're through with this, then that we're just around the corner from being through, then just being angry all the time. I love my boy, but sometimes he drives me nuts.
In other boy news, we put his tree up in his room yesterday. Fancy battery-op LED lights, and a bunch of Alastair-specific ornaments. He loves it.
And I've pretty much made up my mind that he's getting a LeapPad/Leapster/WhateverTheHeckIt'sCalled this year. I'll get him the system, one game, and the recharger for Christmas, then a couple more games for his birthday.