Since I hadn’t that much work done this morning, I really plowed through everything this afternoon. The package we’re sending out to Italian publishers is nearly finished, all we’re waiting on is the modified book trailer. Once we get that, we can send the package out as a pitch. So, with such a draining afternoon at work, I was none too pleased to come home to a disaster.
Fife wasn’t in the house, but his two kids were. BigOne had put little one up against the wall in the lounge, drew a line around him with a sharpie, and they were kicking a football against that wall from across the room trying to hit the humanoid outline. Not only was there a mis-shaped drawing of a person on my wall, but there were football scuff marks and loads ofFife’s stuff was on the floor from where the ball crashed into them upon bouncing off the wall. (Luckily, I don’t own anything, so none of my stuff was broken.)
Funny thing is, my first reaction wasn’t ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing you little destructive monsters?’ It was ‘Where’s your father?’
BigOne shrugged then kicked the ball against the wall again. I grabbed the ball and told them they were scrubbing the wall clean. I went into the kitchen and got some cleaner and a scrubby pad. ‘Here. Now get that stuff off my wall,’ and I handed them the cleaning supplies.
LittleOne reached his hand out to take the stuff, but looked at his brother first, and when his brother did nothing, LittleOne stepped back.
‘You can’t make me,’ said that evil little monster of a child. Then he lunged for the ball which I’d left on the sofa — which he got to before me, because I’m not even athletic enough to keep a ball away from a child — and began kicking it against the wall again.
I didn’t know what to do. Then BigOne told LittleOne to stand in the silhouette and he’d see if he could miss him. The first kick, BigOne missed LittleOne’s head but knocked over a lamp. The second time he hit LittleOne square in the stomach, causing him to double over then vomit.
Now, I don’t do vomit. In anyway. Not children, not adults, no one. I can’t deal with it. It makes me want to wretch. So, I went straight into the kitchen and rang Fife. He picked-up the phone to me screaming, ‘Where the fuck are you?’
He said he’d just popped down to the shops, he’d be back in a moment. I screamed for him to get back ‘NOW!!’
Fife returned home to find LittleOne on the floor in his own sick, BigOne laughing his head off, and the place and absolute wreck. Now here’s where I’m even madder at Fife than I am at his kids. When he walked through the door and saw the mess, I expected him to raise merry hell. I expected the kids to get shouted at, told to respect other people’s property and sent away to live on an island where I’d never have to see them again. Okay that last part is unfair, but a girl can dream.
What did Fife actually say? ‘Aw come on guys. I’ve been gone less than ten minutes.’ Then he turned to me and asked if I could go with them outside to play in the garden while he fixed supper.
This was not going to fly. I was not going to come home after a long day of work and babysit his kids, who he can’t even control. But did I say this? No? Why didn’t I say this? Because I’m rubbish. LittleOne looked at me with those stupid big puppy dog eyes and said, ‘Come play with us outside.’
Fife then said, ‘They’re used to having a garden. They’re just getting bored.’
‘And my room. I’m used to having my ROOOOMMMMM!’ shouted BigOne at his father.
I looked back at LittleOne and he was still giving me puppy-dog eyes, so I agreed to take them outside, but I said to Fife, ‘Tomorrow, you take them to the park after school, and let them run until they’re worn down.’
‘They’re not dogs,’ Fife said as I was walking out the door.
Outside in the garden it was even worse. BigOne now didn’t want to play with the ball and said he was bored. LittleOne kept trying to sneak out the gate and into the close behind the house (which I didn’t want him to do, because he could get lost and I’d never see him again). They complained that my garden was stupid, and I told them that I agreed, but since their father had exiled them to this horrible garden they had to make the best of it. Eventually they sat in the grass and punched each other in the arm, and I sat on the back steps waiting to be called in for dinner.
Dinner was delish, and Fife had cleaned the wall of scuff marks and got the vomit out of the carpet. (Although, the outline of LittleOne in sharpie isn’t going anywhere unfortuantely.) Fife made homemade chicken keives, and we attempted to eat around the kitchen table like a ‘family’. However, LittleOne complained that he didn’t like it. He wanted fish fingers, to which Fife replied, ‘I’m sorry buddy we don’t have any fish fingers. But I can get some for tomorrow night.’ Which did not pacify LittleOne as he refused to eat until he had some fish fingers. Whereas, BigOne complained that this was all completely stupid and we were all stupid and if he were home right night he could be at his friend [Darren]’s house and not ‘Stuck here with your stupid slag of a girlfriend.’
So, how did dearest Fife-dad handle the situation?
He sent me to get some fish fingers from the store (normally I would have said ‘no, tell your child to eat what’s put in front of him’, but I really don’t like being called a ‘slag’, and I needed to leave the room before I threw that little shit against the same wall in my lounge he ruined with is fucking football) and while I was gone he had a ‘talk’ with BigOne. I have no idea as to what he said to BigOne, but when I came back both kids were watching telly quietly in the lounge.
Fife made LittleOne the fish fingers and I finished my (now cold) dinner, and after LittleOne finally finished his supper, Fife got them ready for bed. He’s in the lounge with them now, telling them a bedtime story. Which BigOne thinks is ‘stupid’ (which is fair enough as he is eleven).
What really pisses me off about all this is that I used to want kids. I really did. I loved kids. I enjoyed playing with them, and hanging out with them, and I felt like I could relate to them on some sort of pseudo-child level. Now, I hate them. (Oh, and it also pisses me off that boys not only leave the seat up but are unable to piss in a toilet. Why are their puddles on the floor?)
And Fucking-Fuckwit-Fife (when I’m mad at him, his name will now be TripleF) doesn’t discipline them. I know they’re going through a lot, and divorce is tough on a kid. But TripleF needs to set some Triple-Boundaries or I’m going to kill those little monsters.