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Get Over It
August 25, 2005 | Category: Family, It's a Trip
Warning: If you're tired of my complaining - you know, "I hate my job because I want to be home with kid" - then skip this post.
It has been a bad day. And I am hurting.
Not just because some freak cut me off in the parking lot (did she think she was in NEW YORK? There were a dozen other open parking spaces all around us, but no - she had to jump into the one I was heading into - racing around me with a squeal at like mach 10, causing me to thank my stars CD keeps the van and its brakes maintained regularly).
So. The day. The bad part. It started this morning, when CD was heading into work. He has a lot of flexibility with his schedule, so I shouldn't have been upset that he didn't leave until 10AM.
But it triggered a flashback to the dark times, you know? And all the fear and shaking crawled from my mind into my body. It was just after Bear was born, when CD's darkness began to expand into our lives. One of those first symptoms was a persistant tardiness. To try and help him fight the lethargy that would cause him to miss his train, I would drive CD into work each morning. Bear would cry the entire way because he had an unsual infant's motion sickness.
Ultimately, it did no good.
Flash forward to this morning, and CD is back at work. But I remain skittish and twice shy.
So even if we sold the house and moved somewhere with a cheaper cost of living, even if I belt-tightened, even if I home-schooled instead of the $900/month Montessori, even if I didn't have a babysitter or any other assistance. Even if all those things happened and we actually had enough dollars (which we wouldn't), it wouldn't be enough.
Because in my heart of hearts, I am not sure I could trust. I would be afraid that the darkness would return to claim CD. I am terrified that CD could sink again, and I would be desperately seeking a way to save our home and tend to our son.
So my deepest desire is out of reach. Which is probably why I'm told again and again to "get over it".
But I don't know how.
At this very moment, my son is at the park with his babysitter and I am in front of my computer, working. Is he warm? Safe? Is it going to start raining again? Does he have a raincoat? Is he being guided in fair play and good sportsmanship? Is Elia chatting with her boyfriend or is she watching? Is he tired for a nap yet?
He had McDonald's for lunch, because I had no time to deal with it. I was 15 minutes late for my therapist's appointment because I then had to rush back to the McDonald's and pick them up when they discovered that the PlayPlace was closed for repairs. I reluctantly dropped them off at her place, where her boyfriend's car was parked out front like a huge warning that she had other distractions. I wondered if I would hear more stories from Bear about how "boyfriends and girlfriends nap together" or if my conversation with Elia is still ringing in her ears.
Then my therapist told me he was prescribing me Ambien so I would get some sleep. No more Lexapro, maybe something else. He hunted through my family history for bipolar disorder.
$170 an hour, this guy. And we weren't even talking about issues.
I said to him "Look, I am not bipolar, and I don't want drugs. The problem here is in my life."
He told me that he needed me to be well-rested so I could deal with that very thing.
I said to him "Look, I keep being told to get over it. But what am I supposed to get over? My son is 4 years old, with one year left before he starts full-day school. I waited until I was in my mid-30's to have him because I believe with every drop of my blood that I should be a stay-at-home mom. I had my ducks in a row, and they were shot out of the water. And now, every single frigging day, I HAND MY SON OVER. Do you understand? Do you?"
He told me our time was up.
As I walked back to the car, to pick up Bear and Elia and drive them back to my house, to finish updating my project plans and prepare for more meetings, to make dinner, to drive Elia home again and my son to karate, I called CD. I told him to alert our bookkeeper to the check I'd written.
He yelled at me for not getting the insurance to cover it up front.
I tried not to cry all the way home.
Get Over It.
As if.
(End. Rant.) (Start. Chocolate.)
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