I blame the nurse. She hugged me, dammit.
I had just finished watching three people literally carry my 12-year-old son back from an outing we were on with some of the unit. Luckily, we had only gone a block and a half.
It’s not important why he started to tantrum. Suffice to say, it was a doozy.
I was proud of myself; I held it together. I helped block some of the most egregious behaviors, kept my game face on, and the four of us got him safely back on the unit.
And that’s where it happened. On the unit, Julia hugged me. I could feel myself welling up with tears, so I quickly said goodnight and left after gathering my things.
I was in the parent lounge when I realized it. Shit, I would have to talk to the security guard. You know, the over-empathizer.
I tried so hard to hold it together. I put on my very fashionable, very large shield-style Burberry sunglasses (thanks to my sister -in-law Maria for my quite nice Christmas present, love the glasses, sorry, I traded in the earrings, thanks though), and calmly presented my parking ticket to Mr. Ladies Man to be validated.
“Every time I see you, I just want to give you a hug,” Mr. Ladies Man chortled. Just give me the damn ticket, I thought.
“I don’t need a hug. I need a cure for autism,” I tersely replied. I held out my hand for the ticket. Just give me the fucking ticket.
“Two words,” he replied, holding up his left hand in a V-shaped peace sign.
If he says Jesus Christ, I am SO going to snatch those gold-rimmed glasses right off his face, I thought. I steeled myself.
“Your. Love.,” he says.
“If all it took was my love,” I tersely replied, “my son would have been cured a long time ago.”
I cried until I reached President Street, and that was enough of that. I gave myself extra crying time tonight because the scratches on the back of my wrist were still stinging.