This week is child #3’s Spring break. We started out on Friday with a good day. Yesterday she went with a friend and hung out. Everything was going well…until today.
I tried to give her a treat by letting her stay up last night until 10 p.m. to watch “The Dick Van Dyke Show.” Yes, I know it’s old, but I rather like it! At least it’s nothing sketchy.
Today was fine until she had to make dinner, and couldn’t find the pork chops in the freezer. She lost it. She was screaming at me and spitting on me in her anger. She even grabbed my wrists, which is a favorite technique of hers to hurt me. Since I am laid up with a broken leg, I can’t stand up to her, but instead must instruct from the couch. She loves to kick the couch to make my leg hurt more. It’s unacceptable. I told her so, and eventually she calmed down enough to ask her sister, who had seen said pork chops, where they were. She made them and it was a good meal.
She also took something, I’m not sure what as all the knives are hidden away and have been forever, to cut herself. She explains it like this: everything feels like a dream. Her life is not her life. She’s not living it. She doesn’t feel pain. It’s surreal. So she cuts herself to feel something; anything. It is the only way she knows she’s really alive. Prayers, please!
All the drama (or at least a lot of it) could have been avoided if I had remembered one thing – the same bedtime at all times, Spring break or not. Lesson learned.