The Therapy Journals of the Fat-Headed Klingon Woman

One woman's journey to becoming Her True Self

The Great Catbox War, or Why Mommy’s Favorite Drink is Now Vodka November 4, 2010

Hello all!  The Thankfulness posts continue on Facebook.  Today I put that I was thankful that my children have to go to school and annoy someone else most of the day.  Of course I didn’t really mean it.  Well, I did at the time.  The little crumb crunchers had been driving me insane!  They get up in the morning primed for arguing and fighting as if they’d been listening to subliminal messages in their ears all night:  “Wake up and fiiiiiiight.  Argue with mooooother.  Sass and baaaaacktalk.  Piddle and daaaawdle.  Be late for schooooool because you take too long in the shooooower.” 


One of the biggest arguments this morning was over The Dictators.  Our cats, Hitler and Mussolini.  Here they are.  Aren’t they just cuter than you ever thought evil dictators could be?

The Dictators, Hitler (b/w) and Mussolini (b/w/o)

I am ready for them to become permanent outside cats because they are stinky and obnoxious.  They make me completely crazy.  The bathroom that used to be the kids’ bathroom, the cats now have all to themselves because that is where the catbox is, and it does not get cleaned out regularly enough, so it stinks in there, so the kids don’t want to use it.  On top of this, nothing can be put on the counters because the cats climb up there and knock it off.  Furthermore, the Dictators seem to think that they have not completed their catbox business until they have done the rhumba, samba and cha-cha through the litter and kicked it all over the floor, so the floor is disgusting to walk on, covered in litter as it is. 


Yes, I’m sure that makes my home sound like a wonderful and pleasant place to be.  (Obama moment) Let me be clear.  It is Daughter J.’s job to clean out the catbox, because she is the one who argues and sasses and says no every time I talk about wanting the cats to either go find new homes or just become outside cats.  They’re plenty old enough.  I really think they can defend themselves adequately against other animals in the neighborhood, and if not, there are plenty of trees to climb and escape. 


So this morning, I opened the bathroom door to let the little nasties out of their nighttime home and the stench eminating from the room was barf-making.  We’re talking hit you like a brick wall and momentarily steal your ability to think straight!  So I gently remind Daughter J. that the catbox has reached its capacity for containing feline feces and is long overdue for maintenance!  But unfortunately, my wonderful children have taken much too long to roll their butts off the bed and get ready for school, so I tell her that despite the fact that the catbox smell is about to kill us all, she does not have time to fix it now, and because of her negligence, I will be taking care of the situation when I get home from taking them to school, and the cats will be outside.  Whereupon, she feels compelled to begin whining and begging and pleading and swearing upon her very life that she will clean it out when she gets home from school, and I tell her to forget it, that I am reclaiming my house, and to go get her butt in the car because it’s TIME. TO. GO!!!!


In the meantime, The Boy is griping and nagging about something, and the longsuffering, but not often helpful Daughter S. is getting her stuff collected, and finally we get in the car, but stubborn mule Daughter J. decides to try to scrape the catbox after I go out to the car.  So I have to come back in and make her get out there, but by that time, The Boy has claimed his spot in the car and it’s always the side of the car that J. comes to first, and then there’s a whole fight over “scoot over v. make the other person go around” which has totally been argued to death a million times. 


Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?  So you can easily see why I’m thankful for school.  And why vodka is eventually going to be my favorite drink.  And why I don’t care WHAT anybody says, being a parent of only one child is missing vital elements of parenting!  Oh, the joy!


Until next time,



The Therapy Journals of the Fat-Headed Klingon Woman

One woman's journey to becoming Her True Self

Shawn L. Bird

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