At around 2:20 a.m., those little monsters next door thumped their ball against the wall for about a minute. That's not long, considering they used to do it all day and all night. But it was enough to rouse me from a good sleep.
Now, the "Mommy" has lied, trying to put the blame on the neighbors above me. But there was no stomping last night when this event occurred. It was not due to a fan, it wasn't the upstairs neighbors that are catty-corner to my apartment, and it wasn't the set of neighbors on the other side of me.
Process of elimination. Other suspects for the noises have been ruled out, leaving the Banging Brood as the sole culprits for the disturbance. And "Mommy's" little pit fiends have been known to be up at that time, doing their beating and banging. "Mommy" even admitted once that she doesn't like the idea of telling her kids not to play.
Well I've got news for Madame Neglectful Parent: I'm not a toy. The apartments aren't toys. And after 10 p.m., it's time for rugrats to be in bed, and most definitely not bouncing a blasted tennis ball around. She needs to learn that she's the freaking parent and they are the kids, and they have to do what she says, not the other way around. You'd think that with five kids she'd already know the drill, but she must be a slow learner too.
