Sometimes, things are just violent and bad and stupid.

I can’t deal with repeated questions from my kids–especially the kid who has the cognitive ability of a much younger child, who doesn’t understand concepts like eternity and Hell and death–about what happens after we die, when they will not be satisfied by, “I don’t really know, maybe something, maybe we just go to sleep and that’s it,” and they also won’t stop telling me that they hate me and they won’t see me in the new world/Heaven, forever. They will be with different people, apparently.

I never expected a child with the expressive language of a 3-4-year-old to so clearly and repetitively tell me that they wish they’d been born to someone else–or not at all.

My other child thinks it’s hilarious to call me mean names and give me the finger (it’s going around their class at school, so we’re told).

My body hurts. My heart hurts. I am tired, and scared, and I miss my folks and I miss my kids. I obviously fucked up, or they wouldn’t be acting like this; they’re sweet kids, puberty or not, and if they’re so angry (or unconcerned) about me, I must deserve it, in some way.

Sometimes, it hurts more to have kids, than to be childless.