The weekend

I got a few more comments about my protruding belly last night, but there was mostly peace. There was, of course, complaining earlier in the day about the walk and about how we didn't spend enough time in her favorite store. This is because I had plans with friends during the day, and had told her throughout the morning that if we didn't leave "now," we wouldn't have much time for anything. But there was, nonetheless, a lot of changing clothes, etc. I tried to help her get dressed, but she kept yelling at me. I came down stairs and dad started lecturing me about how I had to be patient with her, but then he went upstairs to help her get dressed only to come downstairs and say, "ultimately, her greatest obstacle is that she's a стерва." I.e., bitch.

During the evening, mom kept on noting my belly and also all the stuff that was in the wrong place. What are the those things (i.e., books) doing in the bookshelf, they don't belong there, who put them there? She's going to take them down as soon as she gets a chance. So they can go on the floor along with everything else in the house. One of the reasons she has trouble getting dressed is that all the clothes are all over the floors and furniture. She tosses them out of the closets and drawers, and then yells at my dad, saying he did it. 

So this morning, there was another rant about how everything good in this house, she brought here and dad never lifted a finger. She only ever deferred to him, and now she doesn't even have anywhere to sit--just half a chair. She came into the kitchen, where dad and I were each making a different part of breakfast, and started yelling--she was holding a cup full of pencils--about how something or other was lost, didn't belong, etc, Dad and I listened for as long as we could until she got louder, and then took turns asking her to stop yelling. She started calling dad names. I asked her how yelling or name-calling was helping her get her point across, and she started yelling at me. She threw something she was holding past me and at the kitchen table.

Mom: I have nowhere to sit anymore, because of him!

A.: You can sit anywhere want.

Mom: Oh, really.

A.: Yes, really.

Mom: I brought in everything in this house, and he doesn't ask, he just decides what he thinks is best and moves things around.

Dad: Look at what's in your hand. You're throwing a fit over pencils.

Mom: This is just part of the bigger issue of your moving everything so I can't find anything. [Name-calls.]
Dad: Must you yell and use that kind of language first thing in the morning?
Mom: [Name-calls!]
A.: Enough, mom.

Mom: I don't even care about you! You mean nothing to me! If you want to see your father, he can go visit you, but your visits bring me no joy and I don't care that you exist. What are you smirking about? What's so funny? I sacrificed everything for you. I put everything into raising you! And for what! You mean nothing to me!

She stopped talking to eat breakfast. Which entailed grabbing fish with her hands (I don't say anything anymore) and slamming silverware on the table.