It’s moving day, at least for my evil sister-in-law. Marc has been volunteered to do a bit of furniture wrangling, and me, I’m stuck at home with the kids. I’ve got mine, and the nephew. I’ve also spent the afternoon doing all the dishes my MIL managed to dirty up since she’s taken off to help toss crap in boxes.

The dishes and stuff don’t bother me. I know, I know. I hate doing dishes on a good day. But I know one day we will eventually move out of this cesspool and into the cesspool we’ve paid to have built (badly) up the road, and I won’t be of much use during that time. The evil MIL, while evil, has a knack of butting in at such times and making life easier, so I figure I’ll just pay what’s due in advance. Besides, I’m the best daughter-in-law she’s got.

What’s got me seeing red today is the bit of conversation I’ve had with my nephew. For those of you not in the know, his mom, my other SIL, is pregnant with baby #2. The nephew is now eight, and has managed to accumulate more emotional baggage in that time than most of the adults I know. He spent the first almost four years of his life being shuttled from one grandparent’s house to the other, sleeping in his own bed only on weekends. His father was out of work at the time, but was doing things around the house, apparently to make it livable (they opted for buying a ruin and redoing it), and couldn’t be bothered. His mom worked during the week, and since they decided not to put the child in day-care or hire a nanny (because ALL of those people are pedophiles!), and the father couldn’t be bothered, someone had to take care of the kid. And let’s face it, the extra twenty minute drive to pick the kid up every evening was just too much.

Now, he is only shuttled back and forth on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. There’s no school on Wednesdays, so someone has to be around for him on that day. He’s still back and forth between the grandparents. Thus his presence here today.

He arrived last night, unannounced. Apparently the parents are too cheap to pick up the phone and call ahead. They all arrive expecting dinner, which hadn’t been prepared because nobody expected them. The kid sat at the table on the verge of tears until his parents left. I felt bad for him last night. Today I feel worse.

This afternoon I asked him if he was excited about becoming a big brother. It seemed a harmless enough question, right? I mean, who would have thought it could lead to trouble? So he tells me he’s not sure he’s going to be a big brother or not. “What do you mean?” I ask, stupidly.

Apparently he’s having a hard time at school (no surprises there, given the emotional burdens this kid is carrying around on his back). The parents had been called by the teacher to discuss the situation—which explains the sour puss yesterday. Then he goes on to explain that his parents have explained to him that if he doesn’t do better at school, that if the disciplinary problems don’t stop, that if he doesn’t concentrate more on his work than he isn’t going to be a big brother.

Huh? See, if things don’t turn around he is going to kill his unborn baby brother or sister.

What the fuck!?! Who in their right goddamn mind tells this to a child?

So in addition to dishes I’ve been wiping away tears and trying to convince him that he’s not going to kill the baby. And trying hard, very hard, not to tell him what total fucks his parents are. I hope he realizes that one day, before it’s too late.