Blah. I'm dog-tired. This week is filled with chores in preparation for my cross-country traveling friends' arrivals on Saturday, and today was just the beginning: a million loads of laundry so that everyone will have clean and fresh-smelling sheets and towels to comfort them. Tomorrow will begin the basics like dusting and vacuuming, and eventually I'll get around to special little touches like flowers and presents.
In my circle of friends, everyone is a specific Disney Princess that embodies some aspect(s) of her personality. In both groups, I have always been Cinderella for two reasons. #1- I have the most ridiculously clichéd dream of love and Prince Charming and happily ever after, and #2- I have the most strenuous work ethic when it comes to keeping things clean. I am always cleaning or straightening things up, a la "Cinderelly, Cinderelly; night and day, it's Cinderelly," only without the adorable singing mice GusGus and Jaq. At school, it's because I'm a bit of a perfectionist and more than slightly OCD about keeping things in order. At home, it tends to be because if I don't do it, it doesn't get done. I don't know what my mother's problem is. I've tried everything I know to help her and nothing ever seems to truly get her back in order. It's frustrating because it's been this way since my senior year of high school. I don't mind helping, but at some point, it just gets ridiculous. She only seems to want to work if we're working together. I don't mind that, but I'm not always here to help. If my brother got up off his butt and did something, that would help, too, but the chances of that are slim to none.
How much can you try to help one person before it becomes pointless? Futile resistance is one thing, but being met with apathy is simply painful. I know my mom has problems, and I've done my best to help her through them. I just need to know that when I leave in less than two weeks, my father will be taken care of and that the house that she and I have worked so hard to get back in order this summer won't fall apart. It feels as if I'm the mother and she's the child, and that I've missed out on some vital part of childhood and teenagedom because of it. When do I get a chance to just be a kid again? Oh, that's right: never.
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