Let me preface this with saying that sometimes I am just so tired of having to weigh my words so excruciatingly carefully (grammar ppl can get me later) and if I have the least little inflection in my tone - cause maybe I'm tired, not feeling good, whatever - I am accused by difficult child of being mad. easy child bought me a CD today with his gift card that he got for xmas. I ripped it onto my computer and I'm listening to it. And it's loud. I *might* do this a few times a year. I feel l like carp and that's putting it mildly. I realized at the last minute that I can't take the toradol because it's a really strong anti-inflammatory and I have medical tests next week. So, nothing for pain. Anyway, difficult child just walked into the kitchen where the computer is, reached above me and turned down the volume. She didn't ask. She isn't trying to sleep. She said she can hear it in her room and she's trying to read. I went off. That she has the nerve to think that she can just walk in here and run the house and tell ME what to do. It pushed me over the edge which I'm already close to anyway. Then she's standing there arguing with me about how I'm always mad at her (see above), blah, blah, blah. Asking me repeatedly what she did - which I answered repeatedly. Loudly, by the end. Told her I wasn't going to argue and to go to her room. Of course, she never does. She just stands there and keeps arguing. So, I went outside and she started crying and went to her room and slammed the door. I know this is a relatively little thing. But, damn it, I do so little for myself. It really, really, really ticks me off how whenever I do something for me, there is a price to pay.