Fractured Cardiac Organ

My heart is breaking a little bit right now. Because no matter what I do for Farmer H and the #1 son, it is not good enough.

I wake up #1 three times before I leave for work. And he yells at me that he's awake.

I put a load of jeans in the washer at 2:00 a.m., and switch them to the dryer at 5:00. But that's just my job.

I rearrange my schedule to pick up Farmer H at the car dealership in the opposite direction of my way home to the Mansion, all because #1 can't do it after robot practice. But I never do anything for anybody else.

I wash the entire contents of the silverware tray every night, because somehow folks around this Mansion find enough food to dirty twelve twelve big forks, twelve little forks, twelve serving spoons, and twelve little spoons between the hours of 5:00-11:00 p.m.

I am the aphid of the sixteen-year-old ant boy. He drops into my classroom to feed on whatever he can find in my mini-fridge or The Pony's snack drawer. He grabs bottles of water like they are free. Yet refuses to carry in replacement cases of water.

I stand at the stove warming supper for 45 minutes, yet Farmer H runs off to town rather than eat while it is hot.

I walk back to the bread cabinet to hand #1 a roll for a turkey sandwich, turkey which I have warmed separately from supper, because he is sitting closer to the roll than I, but asks me to get it for him.

I spend $360 to put brakes on #1's truck, and he asks me to buy him a $30 Nerf gun. Of course, it's a bargain, because it usually costs $60.

I go to the kitchen for some leftover pumpkin pie, and find that not only have Farmer H and #1 eaten an entire cherry pie, but also the two pieces of pumpkin.

I spend days looking for gifts for my family. But I never include Farmer H., world-renowned for his love of and skill in shopping.

If I complain, I am attacked in stereo. And I've learned to never, ever answer the question, "What's wrong?"

The Pony thanks me for anything and everything I do for him.
He's what keeps me going.