The psychologist's report came back. It makes me sad how much it reveals how little control I have over my son.
I love him more than breath. We are not to accept the possibility that we are victims. At what point do I listen to the professionals, that in some respects I have been and continue to be victimized. Attitude? Hell yes, I'm defensive.

scatterings

-If we write our own script, what is the weakness in my narrative that welcomes so much unwelcome conflict?

Much is my willingness to turn the plot over to other editors instead of holding firm to my ideas. I fight fear like a girl.
I did make a move per advice and filed paperwork to collect six months of unpaid child support. Yesterday the ex showed up and informed me he would be leaving town to "find work."

Interesting timing.

He will not be able to care for our son who has become defiant and threatens me when I enforce basic and reasonable house rules. I want him back in the house, but we haven't come to terms with how to do this without a debacle.

I think much of the boys behaviors have been in reaction to and in anticipation of just this kind of abandonment.

Is he afraid that my dating will pull me away?
Do the responsibilities that come with his age create similar fear, does fear his independence?

Daily Bread

Once upon a time I followed a blog written by the mother of a troubled son. It was maddening to read how the son kept making awful decisions. She had a daughter who done did her proud. It was painful to read, sometimes I caught myself feeling some how immune to the possibility of this kind of life. I never felt I was a better parent, but that my children were superior.

One of the pits that I've fallen so deeply into in this spiral has been that slimy walled pit o' despair. I'm ashamed at how often I catch myself saying or thinking, "what could I have possibly done to deserve this penitence?"

This is where I am.

My son is deeply hurt by his impression that I have betrayed him. My behaviors with him have been irrational and out of control at times. The root of the problem is that while his father is failing- to work, to pay support, to pay his bills, I am surviving. I pay my bills, arrange for all the requisite appointments and care taking etc. I'm not living up to his expectations in how I live my life.
His outlandish and horrible behaviors has brought out the outlandish and horrible in me. I've called him an ass hole, when he told me with pride how he called a carnival worker a douche bag when he accidentally spilled soda on him, I told him it sounded like he was the douche bag for being so unforgiving and showing off in front of his friends. I've used even used the dreadful but o so satisfying f word. Worst of all I slapped him and made his lip bleed, I've wrestled him to the ground to pry a phone out of his hands. I've been such an immature parent I'm hardly able to keep from reporting myself to the bad parent police.

When I talk with friends and family about it they are sympathetic, relay similar stories, tell me it's not my fault...

It's nice, a kind gesture, but the agony of having your child reject you and to witness them headed down a path that will only lead to misery is beyond description. I can't bear to think of how it would feel to live in a war torn country where your children are in harms way every moment of every day. How do people walk through the days after losing a child? I think of the strength of Scott and Wife, I think of you two and feel foolish to be so maudlin while you rise with wry witness to the things that make us smile crooked smiles. I am awed by the strength of so many who face more serious woes.


I hang on to the love and support I receive from my family and friends.
I lose myself in some of it.

I wish I could wrap myself round the world, all of you, all of my friends and foes, and love the pain away.

So I'm going running, so I can clear my head, then I'll come home and work my garden, make my basket for my bike...

Something like a micro burst moved through town. The Good Doctor and I stood at the counter of the pizzeria trying in vain to order a pizza of avocado and artichokes when the wind blew the doors open and thunder claps seemed to over take the lightning bolts,lights flickered and failed. We oohed and awed at the appropriate moments. It was over as soon as it started.

There was one casualty-My laptop-it was electrofried.

It's in the shop, I haven't given up hope just yet.

Hope is something I've finally let go of. his is not to say I'm giving up on life, but I'm giving up on hoping for a different life.

I'm typing this on my birthday gift from the Good Doctor. He made me shut my eyes and hold out my hands and placed a brand new Mac book in them.

I don't know how to accept this properly. of course I cried, and stammered.

His kindness in friendship is something I'm hanging on to more for the idea that he thinks I'm worth this much trouble - that he values my friendship and wants to show me how much.

The milk man, my beau fixed my first bicycle, an old Schwinn and we've been cruising around the neighborhood. My bike and I are the shit.

The trouble with my troubled son is too painful to discuss. I've teetered on the edge of sanity and the only way for both of us to survive is to have him with his father. It's a no win situation. My heart is barely taped together.

His brother is easy and shows me that I"m not all bad.

I still long for the road, I want to pack my bags and drive.

maybe soon.

definitely soon.

I get lost in the inner world of men. Growing up with three sisters and the exponential trifecta of girls on the block may account for my longing for their company, as well as my mystification with much of boy behavior. I'm told I get a great deal wrong by reading too much into too little, or not enough into too much. I read that Boys games are simple, you push, pose, grab and go; play fast and lose with the rules. If life comes to blows it's the ways justifying the means.
Life in my estrogen rich hood may have placed me too close to see what was really happening with the women folk. In my world of women the rules are clear and concrete: domestic housekeeping falls square on her shoulders, giving, care taking and service to the man of the house hold rank over any self serving activity. After all, the men folk were out working, bringing home the bacon and handing it off like a baton for the women folk to fry up in a pan. But, wait, that is not the way it was at all. All of the women on the block worked. My grandmother worked. My mother worked. They were teachers, musicians, secretaries and nurses, they sold Avon and Tupperware, they took on sewing projects and cut hair. While all of the women on the block worked, the standard feeling was that the women's work was secondary and too simple to be considered making bacon.
I pull the weight of two people, I bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan and never ever ask for help from any man. Still, how quickly men in my life have stepped up to the verbal rescue with how to advice; wisdom pulled from out of some vacuum. I've had checks written, proscriptions passed during breakfast, I've heard, you need to be told more often than a person need to be told (which is once).