Overworked?

She can't believe how much money I make per article, and she gets snotty about it, like I don't do a damn thing and the checks just come in the mail. How would she like to sit there for hours on end at the meeting when it's about 60 degrees in the library, the goddamn librarian's bird clock twitters every half an hour, and I am sitting next to the one person on this earth that I absolutely LOATHE and she is talking to me and she won't stop talking to me like I give a shit, and why am I so bitter all the time?

And it's the fucking audit report.

And they are talking about Jeff, and how he died, and how the seniors are taking a bus to the funeral and the bank is paying for it, and my throat hurts, and it's tight and I don't want to cry in front of these people, and they don't know him, they never knew him, and I wish they could have so they would feel like crying too.

They have covered up the clock with the screen from the power point, and I check my cell phone repeatedly. I still have to go home and write this freaking thing. They won't stop talking and I stopped caring a long time ago.

My feet are freezing and my nose is cold.

I get home and I catch the babysitter in the middle of a major struggle with Drew. I told him he was going to have pizza for supper, and they changed it on him and decided on something else. Things went bad. Horribly bad. The babysitter doesn't know any better. She tried everything in her box of tools that works with other kids. Like I have been doing for eight years, and it doesn't work. She felt horrible, and I felt horrible. I drove her home and it's so fucking cold outside. We sat in the car and I told her what is going on with Drew, and we decided to come up with a plan when she babysits, and she will know the plan, and Drew will know the plan. We also need a plan in place for when things go bad. Which they will. He sat on the couch, clutching his video game, crying, and he just wanted his pizza like I told him he would have. He eventually apologized for the things he threw at Grace. There were pop cans and water bottles on the floor, along with pieces of something that Marley chewed up.

I make him his pizza.

Grace is clinging, whining, carrying on, hanging from my shirt as I walk around, collecting my notebook and laptop so I can write, and it's late and I want this day to be over so freaking bad. She is tired and just wants me to lie with her. I help her put her pajamas on and I feel bad because I have barely seen her all day. She won't leave me alone so I can get my work done. She needs to go to bed. I am writing and I can't even listen to my music to help calm myself and get through it, because she is listening to her Disney Princess CD while reading along with the book.

And I'm thinking, "Can a person really be this stressed? Can a person really get through this without cracking?" And I'm almost amused at the absurdity of it all. I mean, really?

It's almost over. I am almost done writing the article. The day is almost done. The Disney Princess CD is done. I have music therapy going on. Grace is with her dad now. The boys are sleeping. There is some peace. I need to write about the audit. Then I can go to bed. Escape in my book. Tomorrow has to be better, right?