09/17/2024
"Mom!"
"What Paul"
Pick up from school was good; he had a great day, so claims his teacher. He sat in the regular fourth grade today for some time. He's doing really well with his math!
"Mom!"
"What Paul? When you say 'mom' and I answer, you need to tell me what"
The drive home was decent. It was just Paul and I, plenty of time to express whatever is on his mind. He can't recall what he did at school. He wonders where his sister is, and her new dog T-Rex. I ask him a couple more questions to prompt conversation, but am confronted with silence. I accept it, and we casually make our way home.
"MOM, ma!"
"Paul, what is it"
The phone rings, chaos, I hit the button sending the call to voicemail, knowing full well that there's no way I can talk with an energized ten year old. It happens often, the normal things get pushed off. I sigh and try not to think about it.
"Mom"
"Paul Michael enough! I answer every single time you say 'mom', you have my full attention. What!?"
"MOM, ummmm"
Distraction.
We head outside to pick tomatoes and work out some pent up energy. His energy only, my energy has been long spent. Check on the chickens, dig a bit in the dirt, run, swing, I think it's only been 3 minutes, he's hungry for dinner.
Grocery day! My cupboards are quickly ransacked and emptied.
"Mom"
I choose to ignore the prompt.
I make a frozen pizza and warm up a veggie. It's Monday, oh wait, it's Tuesday. Abby's away for the night and I have a feeling my date won't complain about the absence of a "real" dinner. I'm wrong, he wants TWO pizzas because he's really, really, really hungry.
"MOM, look"
He's already gone; I don't have a clue what I'm supposed to look at.
Another call, another voicemail.
"Mom"
The night continues.
He grazes and paints and catches a few episodes of Bob Ross. He makes sure that I'm watching. I start his shower and remind him that he can still have a long night ahead of him if he listens.
"Paul, Paul Michael, kid! Listen please!"
He stomps upstairs. I glance at his wake of food and wrappers, puzzles, paints, and clothes. I swallow my words, knowing that it will really only take me minutes to clean up. I laugh under my breath at the insistence that he cleans up after himself; he does a bit, but can't seem to do it all. I step in to grab his pajamas.
CRASH
I know the sound as it's happening. I'm holding my breath and am simultaneously grateful that I don't hear a heavy thud. Silence.
The original framed artwork fell a story and a half, spewing miniscule pieces of glass down steps and across the family room floor, tossing pieces into Abby's room for good measure; discriminating not, between surfaces, but spreading it's crystals across carpet, toys, fabric, and concrete alike.
The phone rings.
"MOM, MOM, it just fell. Mom..."
"Please get in the shower"
"MOM, I'll help. Mom, is it lots of pieces. Mom, mom, mom, mom"
"Please get in the shower."
My patience is shattered, by blood pressure begins to rise, but I try keepingthe volume of my voice regular and consistent. The shower overflows, I'm picking up shards of glass. My phone rings. My son continues to shout.
The glass is picked up and vacuumed. I glance at the clock, 6:00. I think of how nice it would be to cuddle and read a book or watch a movie. The thought is gone as soon as I hear a box of toys waltz across his bedroom floor.
We're out of strawberry jam, I forgot it, I make a mental shopping list of the other forgotten tems.
"Mom"
"What"
It starts again.
I sit and stare for 20 minutes. I make mental lists, I study his play, I don't leave the door, knowing how close he is to having his breakdown. I imagine a night where I simply hear "okay mom".
"Mom"
"Please clean up your toys. It's easy. They all go in one bucket."
Another 20 minutes, this time full of stomping and grunting and fits. We yell. I know I'm the mom, I know to stop, I continue.
"Just listen! I don't ask hard things, just listen please!!!"
Finally, the bedroom is clean and the bathroom routine is complete and we're in bed.
The spasms begin, the twitches, the uncontrollable kicks and noises. I pray. I'm frustrated. He rubs his eyes. He smacks his gums and grimaces. He yawns. The twitches continue. I bite my tongue, but routinely ask him to relax his brain and slow down.
"Mom, what day is it? Is tomorrow a school day? Is the glass all gone?"
"Please turn it off kid, it's bedtime."
Another several minutes. I need a shower. I don't think I like being a mom tonight.
"Paul, please stop kicking"
He slows.
7:34
The phone rings.