...strike reality

My strike isn't working.

In my reality, the teen-ager says, “No problem, I’ll call somebody else to take me to swim,” and the tween yells, “Yeah! No piano.”

It’s not working. If they aren’t missing me, maybe I wasn’t important in the first place. Am I unnecessary? Have I taught them to be too self-sufficient? They pack their lunches, do their own homework, fix their dinner. Yikes! What have I done?

My only reassurance is that the children do none of these things well, nor consistently. They still need me around to remind them to clean it up, pick it up, wipe it up, scoop it up and take it to their own personal dumping ground.

That’s it! That is what they will miss, that constant nit pick, picking. I have purpose; I am the designated nag!


Ah ha! That’s what the husband missed yesterday. It wasn’t what I do for him, but the noise I make doing it. He missed that! And that was why, when I engaged in rebuttal last night and we got it all said before bed, that he was able to go to sleep refreshed and able to wake up thinking all was well again with the world.

See? Brilliant me!

Wow, another epiphany! Why don’t I feel better? Somehow, I still feel torched by the short end of the wick!

So, I’m still on strike. Maybe I’ll just shut up. That’ll teach them.