Goodbye, My Love. Goodbye

Physicals. They giveth. And they taketh away.

Four-something years ago we were informed our daughters's first mother's rights to them were terminated, and their last name was magically now the same as ours.

My first reaction was, wow. I now almost officially have four children, ages 6, 5, 4, and 2.
My second was, wow. What if I had a baby, too.

I ran into my doctor's office the next day.

"I need birth control. I need it NOW. Oh, and I've been having anxiety attacks."

She had good news. There was a way to kill both birds with one Pill. Er, stone. Yay.

Three years later I walked into my annual physical. More like my eighteen-month physical, because I put it off until I start to panic about uterine cancer. And she said, "sorry. I have to give you something else." And I said, "no. Absolutely not. No way." And she said, "yes I am. Because otherwise you're going to have a stroke. New research. You'll have to start exercising instead."

Poo.

And so this week begins my new voyage with the new anti-stroke pro-anxiety anti-fifth-child prescription.
It's day two. So far, not so good.

Not helping the situation is Vacation. Anyone who's lived with RAD for more that two days just got heart palpitations from reading that word. And actually, it's not been bad. Princess has been doing surprisingly well this summer and is working with me more and more to calm herself, but Vacation is a test of all things. Although, honestly, it's turned out to be more about dread for me than anything Princess has shelled out. Even coming home has gone surprisingly well. In fact, it's the first time we've made that particular (6-hour) drive without a rage or tantrum. Granted, no one was sitting by her in the Suburban. Josh and Buddy were driving back another way from their Canadian Boys Beer and Belches fishing vacation. But that means I was driving ALONE, so they cancel each other out. There have been almost no issues since we've been home either. Which means it's me. Anticipation will do you in every time.

So it's day two. And I discovered Princess is out of underwear. It's both our faults. I emptied all the suitcases into the washing machine, but not the drier. But Princess is the proud owner of 20 pairs of underwear, and if ten of them weren't already in her laundry box from the three days before we left, some of them would be available for use. But do you think I handled this calmly, apologetically, with sillines and a dash of not my problem? Not so much. Nope.

So I popped some adrenal support, some niacin, some vitamin D, and prayed for some grace. I'll start training for a 5K (hahahahahahahaha!!!!) again, even though I'm pretty sure it's going to give me elderly, arthritic knees before my time.

What else can you do when your doctor insists against your will that you don't have a stroke?

The Unanswerable

WHY is it ALWAYS someone else's friends!?

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. SLAM!
Which was probably for the best, because I wouldn't have known what to say, anyway.

I don't think it was really a question.

A friend of Buddy's had just arrived to play, and they headed up to Buddy's room.

Can I play in your room, too?
You're not allowed past the bathroom.

Which was true. And, really, much kinder than just saying plain no.

Our upstairs goes: my room, Princess's room, children's bathroom, Peanut/the Cuddle Bear's room, Buddy's room, and Princess is not allowed past the bathroom for several reasons, most of which involve hitting and stealing. But the real reason Buddy said that was because he needs normal, neurotypical breaks with normal, neurotypical friends.

This year Princess was invited to one birthday party.

Why is it always someone else's friends?
Well, we both know why.
It's just neither of us know what to do next.

Fireworks

Having a RADling means "family fun" is a conscious decision in which you know you're going to pay dearly on one end or the other, but you do it anyway. Because, gosh darn it, you deserve it. Such was Fourth of July Weekend. We partied had friends over. We barbecued. We lived outside. We stayed up reeeeeeeally late to see fireworks.

We got home at midnight.
Five hours past Princess's ideal bedtime.
Seven hours past the youcan'tmakemeIwon'thavefunbecauseIdon'twantto Rage of the Century.

And then we shot off the horde of illegal out-of-state fireworks we bought the weekend before.

So, needless to say, Princess was totally weirded out.

Also, Princess has a latent fear of the dark. She wanted to hold my hand, which was great, because she usually prefers to be either ten feet behind me or five feet in front. So I was enjoying it, but she was still clearly uncomfortable.

Then, her sisters, who have a sisterly radar for hot spots, began talking about robbers. And long spooky shadows. And bats. And coyotes.

I don't want to be out here anymore.
Ok honey. The lights are all on inside. You can go get on your pajamas and I'll tuck you in in a little bit.
Can you come too?
I want to see the fireworks, sweetie, but you can go in if you want.
I'm going to go in.
Ok.

She ran up to the house like she was being chased by coyotes and robbers and like bats might swoop down and get tangled in her hair. All the way to the lit front porch. And she stopped. For a long time.

Princess? You sure can watch from there if you feel better. You can sit on one of the chairs.
Silence.


I feel better with you.

She ran back to me, chased by coyotes and robbers, bats swooping, and held my hand.