Good Grief

G-d grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.

It is truly one of G-d’s cosmic jokes played out on American adults, that retribution against children in the form of child abuse is no longer permitted. Hair pulling, whacks with a hairbrush, indian burns and honey in ears etc… Limb stretching, gone—too soon, too soon.  Do you really need to be told 45 times, that if you close the inside shower curtain, water will in fact not flood the floor? I’m not talking baby shaking or long term closet imprisonment, just some mild, yet questionable feather light pinching…  Something to get them to think—What the hell was I thinking, when I thought it would be okay to dress the dogs in Nana’s underwear, clean, just out of the dryer? Seriously, how bad would it be to tie a child to a cold furnace, for just 2 1/2 minutes? Just long enough to doubt themselves or their superiors, but not long enough for severe mental anguish to set in.

Is it any wonder why, I at these times, prefer the company of my furry roomies, to my offspring? Pasha, Queeny and my Harry would never, ever kick a bucket of red paint down a flight of stairs. An act so egregious, which in all sane worlds and realities, would call for divine retribution to the adolescent, criminal offender not the innocent victim and bystander. But, Karma really is a B word, and perpetrates a generational buffer zone and flips the script and gets her grins and giggles by allowing a repeat in the form…. She’s a twisted, fickle fingered sister, of fate.

Pasha shows at least moderate interest in me when I call his name. He lifts his head turns and gives me his full attention, he sniffs out the deal. He is able to determine in 2 wriggling deep nose sniffs, it’s I’m worth his while. Am I holding goodies or am I in need of  fur contact petting? If it’s the latter, he saunters off, bored. All in all, I can’t complain. Pasha would never take bright pink paint, from some fresh hell and paint all over exposed brick and wooden beams.

Thirteen year old girls are the worst! They do whatever they want, with their rotten thirteen year old delinquent minds and then when questioned, act like they’ve lost their minds and their ability to speak. And they leave you in all your feelings, sputtering and spitting blood and bile. 

“Tout, tout, through and about; your callow life in dismay. Rentum, Osculum, Tormentum; a decade twice over a day.” ~  Julian Sands, Warlock (1989)

5 thoughts on “Good Grief

  1. I think when I was 13 I yelled at my mother once. She moved my computer games and lost my favorite which resulted in me almost calling her a b*tch. She whipped around the corner so fast and gave me a glare that made me fall on the floor and cry. Some of us do get better with age I promise!!!!

  2. My dad was military and we’re weren’t allow to disrespect our mom or him. Strict childhood but it paid dividends later in being a better person. Teenage hormones – We all get through it, one way or another.

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