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Why do I even try?

Why?

Do I?

EVEN!

Try?

It actually seemed to be working tonight.

Family all together watching a Christmas movie.

Of course the tension was bubbling just beneath the surface before the evening even began.

Tension over which movie to watch.

I’d ask you to guess who’s choice we ended up going with but that would be far too easy.

(In case you’re not quite sure, I’ll give you a hint: an alcoholic was involved in the decision…)

Couple hours into it and the next thing I know, while I am upstairs with one kid, another kid is running from the room crying.

When I asked my husband what happened, he said he didn’t know.

So guess what happened?

(And this one is not that easy.  Even by the alcoholic-in-the-house standard.)

My husband started yelling at Kid C because Kid B and and I were having a disagreement in the other room!

Ok, in case you thought you read that wrong, here goes again:

My middle son was fooling around and knocked off the wall – breaking – a Christmas decoration I had hanging up.  As I was chastising him for fooling around when I had told him to stop (shocking, huh?) my husband blamed our youngest son.

No, really.

My husband blamed a kid who was not even in the room for what another kid did.  When I asked my husband how that even made sense, he said,

“Because he was jumping around down here…”

“So?” I asked.  That’s not how the decoration got broken.

And that was all it took.

Fucking this and fucking that and, wait for it, he’s fucking tired of walking on egg shells all the time.

It’d be hysterical…

If it wasn’t so tragic.

 

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