After getting home from school one day last week JP asked, “Hey mom? Can I have early dinner?”
He then proceeded to eat a peanut butter and jelly, banana, and yogurt. Then he wolfed down his dinner and several snacks. And juice. And water.
:::::::::::::::ALARM BELLS SCREAMING:::::::::::::::
Growth spurts with JP are terrifying. For one, it’s expensive. When that kid grow he alone can devour a week’s worth of groceries in just a few days. But also? It fucks with his meds. In big, bad, ugly ways.
And so I find myself wanting to crawl in bed and stay there, just until it’s over, because goddamn, I hate this part.
He’s tweaked. And moderately depressed. And weird. Hurting himself, talking in baby voices, being disruptive…the list goes on and on and on.
I hate this part. So, so, so much. I live in fear of these moments, constantly looking over my shoulder.
“Try to be optimistic!”
Fuck optimism. It won’t change my son’s reality.
“Maybe this time will be just the trick!”
No, no it won’t. Because he’s nine and the chemicals in his medication can’t keep up with the chemicals in his brain when he grows. Maybe we’ll hit on just the right cocktail in 12 years. But not now.
“If it helps him, you have to increase his meds, right?”
Yup. We do. And every damn time we do I feel guilty because I wonder what damage they’re doing to his body. Maybe not now, but when he’s 50…what is all of this stuff doing to him? I hate it. And I hate that there’s no choice.
“You just need time to yourself.”
You’re right. I do. But I have to come back. And sometimes? Sometimes I just want to run far, far away. A lot of times. Like now. I don’t know that I could get far enough away from home to feel like it’s enough. And when I think things like that, I feel guilty because my kids need a mother who is present and not wishing she was elsewhere.
Like now. I wish I was anywhere but here.