Have you ever had one of those days where you could just grab someone off the street and beg, “Please! Please come to my house and watch my kid so I can go to the bathroom in peace!”

The last week has been like this for me. It’s not even my poor kid’s fault, really; it’s just a combination of cosmic events leading to chaos. You see, we live with and care for a mentally handicapped relative, who can be very demanding. While we get free rent out of it, it does amount to about as much work as you’d have taking care of a ten-year-old child—without being able to discipline the child, and with having the child’s brothers and sisters go behind and undermine everything you say, say yes to things we simply cannot do, and generally make it even more hellacious.

Anyhow, this relative goes on vacation every summer, and you’d think that it would offer us a nice annual break; we always think it will. The thing is, here’s what happens: the fog lifts, and we have this insanely wonderful (and rarely productive—but that’s okay) week where we can say what we want without fearing that our words will A. be taken out of context or B. told to another relative, who is phoned immediately after words are said. We can walk on the floor rather than on eggshells. We can avoid any random outbursts, door slamming, teasing of our own child, harsh demands, messes, and all kinds of other things—that are even more noticeable upon her return. And therein lies the problem.

The returning week feels like a death sentence. The cloud returns, and everything immediately feels heavy. Suddenly, we fully realize how the way we live all year really is, and how much we really don’t like it at all. We don’t have a whole lot of choice in the matter—we did years ago when we moved in, but after putting money into the old, crumbling house and being laid off from my steady salary job, we’re in a much more precarious position. And no matter how many flies I try to catch with sugar or honey, it feels like all I catch are lighting bugs. (I hear that frogs don’t like the taste of lightning bugs; not that I want to eat any bugs at all…)

So I have to keep everything bottled in—as does my husband—to avoid being “tattled” on, having assumptions made, or people generally snooping around. (She does this enough—going through our things, hiding them, or taking them—anything from washcloths to lotion to my husband’s socks—to her room.) We have to be agreeable with everything she says—even if we disagree, and even if she is wrong—in order to prevent giant meltdowns that cause even more misery. Worst of all, we have to put up with her lying, giving bad advice (such as “finders keepers”), and taunting our four-year-old.