Lyra, thank you and thank you, too, Pirate's, for your kindly post. Very understanding, all of you. May I finish this saga and leave you in peace? For the past couple of hours DH and Oliver have been hiking up one of the tors around here and, on there return, produced an injured sparrow from their rucksack. I enquired of th'usband what the fuck I was supposed to do with a limping bird, after all, this isn't Rolf Harris's Animal Hospital. Th'usband shrugged (he had clearly been directed to bring it home by The Omen and was afraid to say no) and so I set the bird free in our garden. Damien began screaming the place down: 'I want to take it home! I want to take it HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOME!!!!' I asked him to stop howling but he launched into a tirade, screaming how he wanted a pet (he has had a jack russell which was returned shortly after Christmas due to Oliver getting bored of it) and that a dog, cat, parrot, mouse, snake would all be SHIT and only a bird that was injured would do.
At this point I told DH to take him home, that I cannot cope and that Oliver does not return for a sleepover until his mother, DH and me sit down together and discuss coping/behaviour strategies for this child (I had this conversation away from Oliver so he could not hear me). Why the fuck should I be subjected to this in my own home when his mother and father are equally as bamboozled and clueless as I? If they showed the slightest signs of having a handle on this boy then I would feel compelled to share their understanding, but, as far as I can tell, they don't. Th'usband doesn't spend time enough with Oliver to be able to know what the answers are and I'm fucked if I'm feeling my way blind. I'm not fucking having it, especially when our baby comes. Fuck it.