I’ve got the winter blahs. I’m in a rut. Even though I live in southern California, it’s still too damn cold for me. It’s been taking me about the middle of my second cup of coffee to form coherent thoughts, instead of the usual one. I’ve been making the diva Chihuahua walk herself at night. My son asks for a tenth Girl Scout cookie and I find myself letting him have it simply because it takes too much energy to say no.
I haven’t made a single addition to my WIP in over three weeks. Haven’t slipped on a pair of jeans in three months, because I haven’t been working out on a regular basis and I don’t care to see the results of THAT. Haven’t ironed the curtains I had to wash after son threw up Girl Scout cookies all over them last week.
It’s times like this when I wish I were a meth head. I’d get so much more done. Or at least think I did anyway.
To make matters worse, I have half my carpet ripped up right now in my casa de mobile due to “BAD DOG!” diva Chihuahua behavior (aka pissing all over the carpet). It was time to rip up all that smelly crap (ICK!) and put down some flooring so she can have a nice, smooth surface to piss all over.
But while the job is being done, there’s nowhere to sit, because the couch is stacked up in the other room. My son’s room is completely demolished, because Miss Diva loved to defile his rug especially, so that means no video games for him. Our TV isn’t hooked up, so that means no DVDs to wind down to after a long day. It’s Day 1 of Spring Break, and I’m debating whether to stick a rusty fork in my eye, or do the slow death thing with some kitchen cleanser.
I tried to be one of those moms who can create an adventure out of any fucked-up scenario, but the best I could muster was, “Think of it like we’re camping” and “You know, sixty years ago there were no video games or TV. People had to listen to the radio.”
My son’s no dummy. He said, “The best parts of camping are the campfire and smores, and we don’t have either. The rest of camping stinks, and so does this!”
“Fine,” I grumbled. “Here, have another Girl Scout cookie.”
Yesterday, I managed to get out of my fleece PJs to put on leggings (not jeans) and drive to a friend’s house, even though it was pouring rain.
Friend has an eleven-year-old son who is ADHD, and so far meds haven’t worked on him. They’re still trying different kinds. He’s a sweet kid, but his hyperactivity manifests in ways like poor grades and sneaking up behind me and yelling, BOO!” every day after school when I’m picking up my son.
Friend also has an autistic three-year-old son. I’ve never been around an autistic child before, except for my son, who autistic “professionals” think is slightly autistic. I was under the impression all autistic children avoid eye contact and all forms of bodily contact, but her boy wasn’t exhibiting these behaviors. I told her how lucky she was.
“Well, my son has sensory issues, too,” my friend explained. “So he needs contact with your body and specifically, pressure on his chin.”
Her son, after he was done pacing the room, went behind his mom, got her in a vice-like grip around her neck, and proceeded to press his chin down hard onto the top of her head.
“Imagine dealing with this all day,” she said, untangling his arms from her neck.
“I can’t imagine,” I told her.
And then I could, because a half-hour later he did the very same thing to me. And let me tell you, he was pretty strong for a toddler. His chin felt like an anvil on the top of my head.
Did I mention my friend has a fifteen-month-old boy as well?
The guy who’s helping me out with my floor is letting a woman friend of his stay with him until she finds an apartment. She has a high-school sophomore-aged daughter in a wheelchair, and a twelve-year-old mentally-retarded or challenged—or whatever the hell is PC to call it nowadays—daughter who cannot speak and wears diapers.
How many long, hot relaxing baths with salts, candles and a glass of wine do you think she gets to take?
Or my other friend, for that matter.
I only have one nine-year-old ADHD boy with a minor heart condition.
Eh, I don’t have it so bad.