So...the butter in the tub of butter went flying one way, and the plastic tub went another. I threw the tub. Across the kitchen and when I was done, I had to pick up the clump of Earth Mother buttery spread with my hand, grabbing up dust and one strand of white hair off my head. Plopped it all back into the tub.
A good role model, me. Throwing buttery spread as I screamed, "Don't you talk to me that way! You learn to control your anger, you...you...!!" Something, something vile came out my mouth at the close of those commandments that probably shouldn't be repeated. Ironic, hypocritical...such a good parent...me. I now see that my eldest, freshly-teen child has managed to crawl into that part of my brain that is cabable of collapse, a place only occupied by my mother, my brother, and my husband. Now J.
I've got a migraine. I'm at the computer, a Diet Coke at my side, M using a wet paper towel to wipe down my desk (water/wood, not a good combo, but whatever). D's watching "the Closer," J's skateboarding outside, A's nursing a bike-riding-wound ("I was riding on the grass and Sassy was biting my tire and I fell and look, something pinched me right here! See? Owwwww..."). I'm tired.
Got my hair trimmed today, got a little color to soften the blow of my intensely grey hair. Watched my shadowed, weary face in the mirror as my hairdresser chattered on about her life, about the parallels of our lives.
"You said that to J?"
"Yeah. After the butter thing."
"Oh honey, that's nothing. Two days ago I told mine to SHUT THE **** UP! DON'T THROW YOUR ****ING BULL**** AT ME YOU UNGRATEFUL ****!"
I laughed, cringed, "Ouch."
"How is it they drag you into the dirt?"
"So low, so deep into the mud, I don't think there's a way out."
She chuckled, "We've all been there. Ain't proud of it, but they have their ways of bringing it out."
They have a way alright. M got her hair cut, too. Trimmed the ends into a nice straight line. For months now she's been like a circus girl, the left side of her head, long hair, the right side, just below her shoulder. Don't know how it happened - I suspect she got creative with scissors. Either that or I got over-enthusiastic when I had to cut a chunk of hair that got caught up into some light-up, twirly toy. She's even now. Ready for school. Ready for all that hair to grow out again. A got his hair cut, too. J still sports his Glam-rock hair.
Afterwards I rushed home, straightened hair whipping in the open window's breeze, swept up the boys and headed out to Pasadena to meet with their doctor. A's doing well, J's obviously a little stressed. From there, we flew across town to the neurologist for the tics. They've decreased with the Keppra but we're still seeing spurts of real loudness. So...Zoloft's on our list now. Address the anxiety. Let's see if we can soften the blow of external stressors so he won't tic as often. Makes sense. He was nervous for the doctor and you could hear him outside the office.
"You might consider home-schooling until we get this sorted out," the doctor suggested.
"We thought so too."
"You mean, I don't have to get up in the morning? Whooo!"
The drive home was slow, traffic heavy, but the boys seemed strangly elated. Happy even. J had a good talk with the neurologist. The doctor answered lots of his questions. Told him lots of stuff about other Tourette's patients of his. Assured J that he's not the worst he's seen.
Oh, oh...D's up. Saying J damaged the plastic pool with his skateboard, but I intervene, "No, no, I saw it was broken last night. I think Sassy got to it."
Battle averted. Apology.
Bed for all. I've started prepping for school. Finished each syllabus for the three classes. Polishing up on the opening lectures. Tweaking the approach. Adjusting the tempo.
I'm ready for a change.