Friday night:

Drunk, stoned men break down my door at three in the morning. The mother and her friends have gone out on another bender. Like every night I work.

Saturday morning:

One man staggers out the front door. Another sleeps on the couch. Apparently they took too many pills with their beer the night before.

Saturday afternoon:

Took an hour off, with permission, to get some lunch with the boyfriend. Come back and the mother freaks because she had to change a dirty diaper. Was surprised she was up before four or five in the afternoon.

Saturday night:

The kids keep saying to each other, "shhh, Mommy's sleeping," which is what I say to them constantly when we're home.

Sunday morning:

Realized I had worked double the promised number of hours for the third week in a row.

Sunday afternoon:

Hide baggies of weed and pills and white powder from the children. Again. Note how well they've taken to my boyfriend, mostly because he pays attention to them.

Sunday night:

Decide to quit.

Monday morning:

Start the job search again.

Monday afternoon:

The mother starts kissing my patootie. She glances at me nervously and tears up when the children tell me they love me when I tuck them into bed. "No! We want Sheila to do it!" they scream at her like how they used to scream at me.

Monday night:

Everyone I know starts e-mailing me lists of jobs I could have and letters of support. My mother is scared. My father sends me his credit card number.

Tuesday morning:

Overwhelming sense of calm. We've gotten along well for the most part, but my time has come.

betholindo at 10:55 a.m.

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