I Don't Care

I don't think I've ever told a child "I don't really care" before..until this week.

My third boy is a talker. A Chatty Kathy. A nine-year-old Talker from Talkersville. We think he has a great future in script writing or some other imaginitive, word-filled field.

I can usually tune him out and still mutter a few niceties like "Oh, that's very interesting" or "I see" in order to show and teach attentive listening and respect.

But this week I couldn't help myself. Drowning in exhaustion after milking sheep and nursing orphan lambs in the bitter cold, the words slipped out. "I don't care."

See, I'm up at 5 a.m., heading out to the barn, and then working diligently to get the four boys off to school and myself to work - lunches packed,hair dried, animals fed, forms signed, etc. etc.

Into this already chaotic environment he chimes in "I can't believe you changed the name of my sheep! That's so rude to change the name of someone's sheep." And "I'm out of magazine rounds for my airsoft gun. When I grow up I want to be an Airsoft Commander....something...something...blah...blah...weapons...something. Look, I was punctured by an airsoft bullet. Really I stabbed myself with a pencil but it looks like an airsoft bullet wound."

I don't care. I can't get distracted by The Airsoft Commander because I've arrived two hours late for work every day this week already.

I don't even care, right now, when we eat dinner or what we eat.

It's a miracle if I remember to pack my breakfast, since there isn't time to eat during the madness of the morning. On Tuesday I bought myself TWO cinnamon rolls at the local bakery (day old, 50% off) and I ate them both in one sitting.

And I don't care. It was Fat Tuesday anyway.

The oldest boy drove to the city yesterday to sign a performing contract. I half forgot, but his pocket dialed me along the way so that I generally knew what was going on. God knows the number of our days so no matter how much I worry (or care), he isn't necessarly safer on the road. A big truck hauling glass crashed on the expressway, sending shattered glass EVERYWHERE. Thankfully, he was a mile behind that accident.

The youngest came home with the worst weekly school report in family history. And I still don't really care.
I should, I know.

He is lying about his homework and being silly in class. It was suggested, this morning, that I take him to see a specialist about his energy level.

Instead, I'm putting all of my worrying and my cares on the table for now. Once this legendary cold spell breaks and he can go outside, his classroom behavior might just improve.

After a few nights of solid rest, my mood might improve too.