Sobbing in the Shower

I had a moment this morning. Well if I am being completely honest, and is there really a better place to do so than anonymously on the internet (unless you count Confession and that only applies if you are of that religious persuasion and feel the need to save your soul)…I had more than a moment.  I had a full-blown Good Cry. That term, I feel, should be trademarked if it hasn’t been already (and if it isn’t, and someone does, and makes a lot of money, I call dibs on commission for the idea), as there are few other terms that instantly bring to mind the precise scenario you try to define.

Don’t say you’ve never been there: lip quivering, nose tingling, eyes brimming, with the bonus chest and stomach pain reserved for those really special occasions. Whether you’ve been holding it in for a while, or it’s brought on by a sucker-punch of a situation, there is nothing so overwhelming yet cathartic at the same time. A Good Cry is best kept until you’ve reached the privacy of your car, your bedroom, or in my case the bathroom. 

Coincidentally (or not, perhaps) it was while I was standing under the shower, spraying cleanser onto the screen, that I felt the urge to weep.  Faced with the task of scrubbing soap scum that no one else in my family seems to see, I felt a somewhat inexplicable and unfamiliar tremble in my lower lip, burning in my eyes, and off I went.  (On the upside, it's a great place to let the tears flow, along with the runny nose that always seems to accompany A Good Cry, and while it's not a great look at the best of times, at least there's no one there to witness it, unless you've invited others to your Pity Party. I mean, with the mirror fogged, even you can't see how bad you look...)

Anyway, as I attacked the scaly screen I started thinking about all the other household jobs awaiting my attention, started plotting the best order to do them in, dreading the energy expenditure required, and being overcome with an enormous sense of failure on multiple levels.

Long story short, yet relevant to this tale: a Special Needs son (another term that sums it up but one that I’m not so fond of), an unexpected permanent disability of my own, a husband who works split-shifts/dog-watch/14-if-not-24/7 with no massive financial return to show for it, a young daughter who I desperately try to not get lost in all of the above- means our home is not a castle by any stretch of the imagination. Not a Hoarders’ Hovel either, but gives a good impression of one at times- I simply cannot keep up with the housework. Which means that I actually actively discourage visitors, and sleepovers are out of the question altogether. There lies the rub.

Kids are supposed to hang out, have playdates, and stay up all night after too much junk food and rubbish TV. Heck, I did all that and then some when I was young. Not my kids. Our 3 bedroom house does not lend itself to extra bodies, not when in the wisdom of the architect the bedrooms barely hold a bed, let alone extra bedding. With the aforementioned revolting shifts, my Beloved comes and goes, and makes coffee, at all hours of the night, so a kids’ camp in the living room is not doable either (allowing that they will eventually drop off to sleep at some stage).

Add to that my screaming lack of pride in our place, and the never ending load of laundry looking at me on the lounge, and I don’t feel able to offer invitations to other people, or their children.

Why precisely this all caved in on me in the shower this morning, I’m not sure. But the trigger was a photo of 7 smiling faces on facebook- showing all the other girls in my daughter’s class at a birthday party this weekend. Every other female except mine. I know they all play sport together, do various other events, and “face time” for hours on end.  They are a nice group of girls really, they all seem to get along in class, all happily accept the annual invitation to our Halloween Party, and begged my child to get some sort of ‘iProduct ‘ so they could include her (which she did, which they haven’t); and yet the photos keep coming of the rest of the class (of the female variety anyway) hanging out, without my girl.

And I know it’s because our lifestyle- or rather the circumstances of our life- means she cannot join the sporting teams, go on shopping trips, or concerts, or just hang out. There's always another appointment to attend, or not enough time, energy, or money at the end of the day.

So while I have to trust that we are doing the best we can raising our children to hopefully head into adulthood as community-minded, well-educated, decent mannered and socially aware human beings, it’s this in-between period that’s stressing me out.  If they are missing out.

Which brings me back to my scrubbing and sobbing simultaneously in the shower.

And now sees me sitting here scribbling with a sick feeling in my stomach, knowing I’m going to have to come up with some sort of explanation, or a big box of tissues, when my little girl comes home from school tomorrow knowing she was excluded again, and quite possibly needing A Good Cry of her own.

At least the shower's clean should she need it.

Jx

© 16 February 2014

Handy Man

There’s a lot in this world we take for granted.

Like the fact that there’ll always be milk in the fridge, the TV will turn on when you press the remote, there’s still enough fuel in the car to get you to the service station, and no matter what else, you get to grab life with both hands.

Unfortunately I have learned that that last one isn’t always the case (oh and in our house, the first one also depends on who had the last cuppa).

Take my son for example. Due to the damage done by Juvenile Arthritis, he has had the use of both of his hands for a mere two weeks since March this year.

Yep, just fourteen days out of almost 6 months.

And boy, doesn’t it make a difference to your life.

You expect to lend a helping hand to your children when they are little and haven’t quite grasped the concept of hand-eye coordination. It’s a given that you’ll be the one wiping their bottoms, holding the spoon, and doing up the buttons and bows.

But there comes a time when kids either don’t want or don’t need their parents to be doing those sorts of things for them.

Independence is a big thing to a little person.

So imagine feeling like you can’t get a grip on what’s going on around you, literally.

It’s something that my son has to deal with on a daily basis. By default, so do I.

Instead of the usual and efficient school day routine we have managed to get going: I make the kids’ breakfast then move onto getting lunches together before laying out the school clothes ready for them to get dressed while I do the shower thing myself … for the past 5 months I have had to stop and sit and spoon the cereal for my son, make the swap from pjs to uniform, and wipe anything that needs it along the way. Some days we’re lucky to make it to school before the bell, and then it’s up to me to carry the bag to the classroom.

At the other end of the day, while I can usually have the dinner cooking while the kids take a bath, and have them come to the table ready dressed… I have burnt countless pieces of meat, let numerous saucepans boil dry, and totally forgot the side vegies altogether more often than not, while I move from kitchen to bathroom to bedroom and back, helping my little boy. (And I’m sure the neighbours are used to being serenaded by the sound of our smoke detector.)

But do I begrudge the extra effort I must make to pick up the shortfall of a child without two hands in full working order?

How could I?

Not when I get to sit with my son and daughter for nearly every meal, happily avoid the splashes amidst the laughter of bathtime, and listen to the childish chatter as I get up close and personal yet again doing tasks that most of us simply do for ourselves without another thought.

I have plenty of opportunities to count the freckles on his face, savour the sweet sound of his voice, enjoy the feel of his little hand in mine as we walk to another appointment, and take every chance I get to take some more mental photographs of my darling little man who will be too big too soon.

How many mothers of 7 year old boys get to do that?

And so, on one hand, while it breaks my heart to watch my child struggle with things that we take for granted every day; on the other hand, I get to spend precious time with my son that the average mum misses out on once her offspring decide they don’t need her so much anymore.

And just quietly, that’s a pretty handy thing to get you through the day.

Jx©
2009