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 I start a load of laundry, take the boy to school, pour a cup of coffee, put the dogs out, answer email. I fold a load of laundry, make some phone calls, drink another cup of coffee, sit at my desk and write a few listless words that won’t go where I want them . . . → Read More: Behind My Eyes Pediatric mental illness is screaming and crying; raging and breaking things; cursing and swearing; ER trips and suicide attempts… …and it is midnight visits from a 9-year-old who still knows how to fit into the curve I make in the bed just the way he did when he was a toddler. “Mommy, I’m so . . . → Read More: Pediatric Mental Illness? It’s Like This… Let’s just call grief what it really is: a wily, slimy, and brutally persistent motherfucker. Grief is like moths that thump against the lampshade until I am almost mad with their noise, except these moths are 40 pounds apiece and they are slamming against the inside of my skull. It’s a weight in my . . . → Read More: Cry Me a River  I put a condiment cup full of pills in front of Carter this morning, as I do every morning. As he does most mornings, Carter shouted at me, “I don’t have any water! You know I only take my pills with water!” And as always, I pointed to the water glass sitting next to . . . → Read More: Toothpick Wielding Demons  Here’s the thing: in the beginning, everyone is lost and alone. No matter how a person goes from being parent to parent of a child with disabilities, in the beginning the world turns itself ass-end-up. Whenever the news comes or the realization dawns—during pregnancy, immediately or shortly after birth or adoption, or later—there is . . . → Read More: In the Beginning Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 3.1 (except it’s less of a part and more of an interlude) Part 4 However, maybe you didn’t read those, and maybe you want to read one post and not 5. Fair enough. Here’s what you need to know: Robert was my first husband. We married in . . . → Read More: The Transcendent Familiar 5: Down Comes the Night As predictable as sleepless nights with a newborn… As predictable as spring winds in Albuquerque… As predictable as taxes on April 15 in the US… That’s how predictable I am. My sons are both nearly perfect physical replicas of their fathers, what people have called, ever since those weird Austin Powers movies, a “mini . . . → Read More: As Predictable As Rain In Seattle My head hurts. Actually, I have pain from my forehead, up and around the back of my head, down into my neck, and spreading across my shoulders and down to my back. Why? Because I don’t like my kid much these days, and that’s a shitty way to be feeling. If I had a . . . → Read More: Under Siege Brian and Carter have gone to bed, closing out a day that I’d just as soon have skipped. There was yelling today. Also some stomping on the stairs, several episodes door slamming, and, of course, the requisite cursing. I wish I could say that all the bad behavior belonged to the small person who has . . . → Read More: The Mother I Was, the Mother I Am, and the Mother I Wish I Could Be Can you see my beautiful boy? He’s not invisible, but you might have to squint a little bit to see him clearly. You will be tempted to pity him, but rest assured that he will never make you small by pitying you. He will show you fear in a handful of dust, but he . . . → Read More: Beautiful Boy  |
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