Monday, September 05, 2011


Last night, I was halfway through washing the dinner dishes when I started.  It hurts, you know, when the warm water and the dish soap run down arms full of scratches and bites and pinches and kicks and headbangs.

I bawled and I bawled and I bawled and I bawled and I bawled.  I sat down on the floor in the middle of my dirty kitchen and I bawled some more. 

I cried for so long and for so hard that I know it’s why I have a migraine today, but I just couldn’t stop.

“I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANYMORE!” I screamed in my head.  I didn’t scream it out loud because it’s scary enough to see your mom cry like that.  I didn’t want to freak my typical kid out even more than he already is.

And all I want to do is crawl into the bottom of a bottle of wine and just drink until I feel nothing anymore. Nothing.  Nada.  Zippo. Zilch. Zero.

“Your face looks funny, Mom,” Aidan said to me, wringing his hands.  “Are you really tired?”

“Yes, baby, I am just really tired,” I replied.  He hates seeing me cry. No 9 year-old should see his mother cry like that.

It doesn’t help that I know why he had the tantrum.  Today was the first day my husband and I implemented the behavioral treatment plan at home. 

I don’t think Conor liked that very much.

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