I went to see my psychiatrist a few weeks ago for the sole purpose of having her increase my anti-depressants. I walk in confidently, sit down and tell her, "I need to up my medication. I have been depressed and so I think I need the change."
She smiles and says "How is your yoga going?"
The kids came out of their bedrooms and sat down at the table with plates, bananas and peanut butter for a snack. Then they started yelling at each other over the peanut butter. I grabbed the jar out of my son’s hands and slammed it on the table and yelled. My son then threw his plate, which shattered all over the floor. Tears came to my daughter’s eyes as she froze in terror.
You could say that it has been a week. I could say, quite simply, this is my life. My daughter smells funny because of the no need for soap issue and I will continue to have nearly non-existent breasts until quite possibly the end of my time here on earth. And then there is the retirement issue, or the more immediate issue of the bills that still will need to be paid regardless of the employment status of anyone of us in our family.
And then I see it. Kids start making fun of my son because he doesn’t know his alphabet. He’s almost 9 years old. He should most definitely know it, but he struggles and always has. And I struggle all the time trying to teach my own. It’s a double whammy for this poor kid.
I am relieved to look in the rearview mirror to finally see him sleeping peacefully. I look back frequently to make sure he’s feeling okay. I then look back and see him having a seizure. He’s never had one. I only recognized it because I’ve seen it in a couple of my students in years past.