My wife and I have one child; a little girl whom we love with all our heart. Other people in the neighborhood have children as well: many, many children. Many, many unsupervised, dad-absent, no-boundaries children slamming our doors and eating our frozen treats and asking us if they can have things that are ours, like my Batman coffee mug. The one I’m currently drinking out of, i.e., actually holding.  Seriously, who the f*** looks at someone drinking from a coffee mug and says, “hey, can I have that?”

Step 4: made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.

And I don’t give a shit what you say, it’s impossible to remain calm. Because there will be a point when you will be yelling at an 8 year-old boy whose name you don’t know to quit walking on the back deck’s railing. I mean, three warnings should be enough, right? But it’s not, because children out of sight of their legal or illegal guardians act like assholes. There. I said it.

It’s as if they’re mini-manifestations of the various aspects of my alcoholism. The unreasonableness, the overreactions, the falling down. And the sneaky. Don’t forget the sneaky.

So, for today: I don’t have an answer, or a solution. There’s no amount of prayers or meditations that can help me keep my cool when grandparent-raised boys are breaking my shit. Oh, make no mistake: I hate men. Always have. So guess how I feel about trying to corral some deadbeat’s one-off? It’s really making it hard for me to keep voting Democrat.

The answer I came up with? Let go and let my wife. She drops the hammer without any equivocation. Some situations I need to simply walk away from before any perspective is possible. The miracle is knowing when to walk away.

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