Yesterday would have been one of those days when I'd cry on Woody's shoulder and he'd brush my tears away. It was also the first day in weeks that I walked down the street with Calvin to Woody's house. Knowing no one would be home, I let Calvin climb the steps to the side porch and, like so many times before, we tried to ring the doorbell. As I peered in through Woody's kitchen window, I felt sad knowing I'd never see him again, and I wondered what the new owners will think of a frustrated mother and her impossible son coming to bang and drool on the corner of their garage.
While I stood with Calvin as he mouthed the white vinyl siding, I noticed the small azalea I had planted for Woody a few years ago, the one which I insisted was pink and he swore was red. I saw that the hostas in the corner of his garden are beginning to bloom. I noticed how quiet it was standing in the driveway in the heat of midday, a stark difference from the morning I'd spent with a boy whose moaning, screeching and hollering has chapped my nerves to the point of fraying.
Back at home, as I sat on the green couch with Calvin batting away his flailing arms, cinching up my shoulders to keep from having my hair torn out, squinting my eyes and turning my head to avoid an errant fist, I began to weep. Every once in awhile I consent to feeling sorry for myself. Yesterday was one of those days.
After five months of consecutive daytimes taking care of Calvin by myself, I'm tired. I'm bored walking in circles behind my kid. I'm frustrated with his miserable antics. I miss seeing Woody. I'm mad at the world. At times, I resent my situation. I'm ready for life to get back to normal, whatever that means. I'm sick of the tiny little petty man in the Oval Office, despise his harmful and reckless policies, his deceit, his profiteering, his swamp full of bootlickers and cronies, his dog-whistle politics and the way he divides America. I'm demoralized by my son's relentless seizures, terrible behavior and my powerlessness to do anything to improve them.
Later in the day, while Michael was upstairs with Calvin, I watched as long shadows stretched across the backyard, heard crickets and birds chirping, noticed the sweetness of the tall phlox coming into bloom. A warm breeze swept across my face and carried a greying fringe of hair. I thought about the late afternoons when I'd go visit Woody, just as the sun bent around his front porch before falling off into the trees. We'd be sipping our toddies and watching the world go by, and maybe he'd be wiping away my tears.
While I stood with Calvin as he mouthed the white vinyl siding, I noticed the small azalea I had planted for Woody a few years ago, the one which I insisted was pink and he swore was red. I saw that the hostas in the corner of his garden are beginning to bloom. I noticed how quiet it was standing in the driveway in the heat of midday, a stark difference from the morning I'd spent with a boy whose moaning, screeching and hollering has chapped my nerves to the point of fraying.
Back at home, as I sat on the green couch with Calvin batting away his flailing arms, cinching up my shoulders to keep from having my hair torn out, squinting my eyes and turning my head to avoid an errant fist, I began to weep. Every once in awhile I consent to feeling sorry for myself. Yesterday was one of those days.
After five months of consecutive daytimes taking care of Calvin by myself, I'm tired. I'm bored walking in circles behind my kid. I'm frustrated with his miserable antics. I miss seeing Woody. I'm mad at the world. At times, I resent my situation. I'm ready for life to get back to normal, whatever that means. I'm sick of the tiny little petty man in the Oval Office, despise his harmful and reckless policies, his deceit, his profiteering, his swamp full of bootlickers and cronies, his dog-whistle politics and the way he divides America. I'm demoralized by my son's relentless seizures, terrible behavior and my powerlessness to do anything to improve them.
Later in the day, while Michael was upstairs with Calvin, I watched as long shadows stretched across the backyard, heard crickets and birds chirping, noticed the sweetness of the tall phlox coming into bloom. A warm breeze swept across my face and carried a greying fringe of hair. I thought about the late afternoons when I'd go visit Woody, just as the sun bent around his front porch before falling off into the trees. We'd be sipping our toddies and watching the world go by, and maybe he'd be wiping away my tears.
A toast to Woody from the
ReplyDeleteWest Coast! Go Calvin!