Am I a Punk Ass Bitch?

This morning I walked through my house and surveyed the area. Dishes. In the sink. Not even soaking. The technical rule is to do dishes every night. The kids work and have activities, so I grant leeway. Except this morning, at 2 am, I heard my firstborn Netflixing and chilling. Surely, he fell asleep with the TV on. So I called out and received a sprightly, responsive, “Yeah?” I was far too discombobulated to process so I went back to sleep. When I woke, I verified that the dishes were undone, leading me to ask myself, “Am I a punk ass bitch?”

Having kids who are older teens gives you the worst case of senioritis. They should really have all of this together. Is there honestly a need to still have conversations about homework, washing the dishes, and following curfew? No. There shouldn’t be. And yet here I am, 18 years in the game, still fussing. (Not so much about homework, I didn’t do it when I was in high school and I’m not checking yours.) I’m not permissive, but I’m not an overbearing authoritarian either. I basically lay out the rules, expect them to be followed. Overall, it works. I don’t want to have to ground them. It’s annoying and then when they’re bored they want to talk to me and interrupt MY fun. My kids know that I’m not the one to play with on the surface, but am I losing ground here? Why am I repeating myself? Why does it take 4 hours to clean when you don’t need anything, but 15 minutes when you do? AND WHO LEFT MY TALENTI ON THE COUNTER? Am I a punk bitch?

This must be how quarterbacks feel when they’re on the verge of losing the locker room. I used to be Drew Brees, but I’m perilously close to Geno Smith territory. I’ve spent this morning weighing my options:

  1. Running away
  2. Give the biggest one a flesh wound below the knee
  3. Setting the house on fire
  4. Throwing the Xbox, the games, every nail polish bottle, lipgloss, and makeup brush out the window and setting those things on fire
  5. Setting myself on fire
  6. Wearing a bad wig and insisting that I be called Viola Swamp
  7. Changing the wifi password

I’ve been astonished by how quickly time passes. By this time next year, the baby I could hold in the crook of my arm will be in a dorm and likely in love with some liberal artsy girl who doesn’t believe in deodorant. My baby girl will have taken the SAT for the first time. I don’t want the last years of us all living under the same roof to be filled with nagging and punishments. But I will do it, because the only alternative is to burn this motherfucker down.

Because I ain’t no punk ass bitch.

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