All Roads Lead to Mom...

So I have been in sort of denial. I've even been in denial about being in denial. For about 345 days a year, I really believe I have a superpower that allows me to believe that I can do anything, ANYTHING if I put my mind to it. Those other 20 days scattered throughout the year? Not pretty.

I found myself drawn on Saturday to a place I normally avoid. When the going gets too tough for the truly tough, the tough need their Moma. Unfortunately, mine is no longer on this earth and every now and then, that still takes my breath away.

I had a terrible week last week.

Monday kicked it off. I had my son's IEP meeting. Oh joy! Those are fun beyond words. Not to worry, they were really busy and in a hurry and only a couple of people were there. It was nothing like what our son's TEAM told us it would be. It's nothing like what you read about. My favorite scowling teacher was there. The lovely Ms. I cannot be bothered to read your child's file! She was there representing my child's NEXT grade. OH JOY!!! WOW!!! So much to look forward to! I already know she's got a winning attitude and a joyful personality. I think she adores me as much I adore her. So I sat there feeling what I know deep down...This is a bad plan. That's always comforting to a parent. I like his teacher this year. I like our learning specialist a lot, but to quote my Dear Moma, "Shit rolls down hill." It's taken me a bit but I do now realize that the communication and flexibilty we need will never come from the school we chose for our child. I also know that I do not have an acceptable alternative for him. Therein lies the rub.

My "job" has ticked me off lately like never before. I was warned but I never really had to insist that people do what I'd asked them to do. I loathe late. I have told people who I thought really did care about me (our family, my son) that I needed everyone to stick to the time plan so that I could pick up my son. And every single day. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. I had late parents. PARENTS! HELLO?! Do you not think I deserve a couple of minutes?! No. You don't. You just pat me on the head and pretend to care. Do I have a bad attitude? You betcha. GEE WHIZ, people, do not come bouncing in all smiles and happy when you are late and putting me in the ridiculous position of heart palps and RUNNING to do what I need to do. I've always been hard-headed but lesson learned. People treat you the way you allow them to treat you.

Did I mention my husband is traveling and so my two boys, my three jobs and our new puppy and all the laundry and house cleaning is falling to me? I WISH I could "let the house go" but I just don't operate that way. I like order and cleanliness. My two boys? Not so much.

By Friday I felt like a pressure cooker. I resisted screaming at people, I cried only in the shower and I kept closing my eyes and telling myself to just take some deep breaths. Nothing was working, I wanted to punch a brick wall. My dear friend, Hope, finally said what needed to be said...I need to grieve. I need to let it out. She was right.

I decided that I needed to go home to grieve with real people who understand me. I don't really have a "home" home...other than the one I live in, but the air and the grass there in KY, it's home. I left my children and my husband early on Saturday and drove to my friend's house. We've been best friends since seventh grade. I decided to stop at Target and get a happy CD. I just couldn't seem to shake the crying. I was walking through the store when I spotted these horrible plastic cemetary flowers. I walked over to them and I swear I could just hear my Mother making fun of those tacky flowers. I looked for a second and then I saw the price. $9.99. I started to walk away and I heard her again! "Oh sure... Don't spend that $10 Shelley, it's not like you have had to spend a lot of money on me the last 3 years" Even in DEATH, my Mother still wins the argument. I cannot win! But I knew exactly what I needed to do.
I bought those ridiculous red and pink flowers and drove to talk to Mom. It was a beautiful, sunny day. I mean it. It was gorgeous. It was exactly like the days she'd described before she died. "This place will be great, isn't it pretty, it's busy, but not too busy, there's a nice breeze there, do you like it, will you visit me, I will be in the middle of everything." I can see her standing there talking about her grave. The thought of it made me sob. I had no idea that I would miss her this much, that I would NEED her this much. I sat there and had a glass of wine and I didn't want to leave. Nobody loved my Grant like my Moma.

I noticed some very odd things while I was there. If you sit right next to my Mom's headstone, right in front of you, there are tombstones that read Haynes Shell. Ok...that's weird. And If you look out at the big field, there is a tombstone that reads Grant. Look in the opposite direction and you see Holland on a headstone. I was reminded of that day when my Mom said to me, If there is a way I can reach you after I die, I will. I promise I will. I think she did.

Are you talking to me?

When I know I am going to have a particularly rough day, I turn to my makeup bag. I know a really heavy dose of eyeliner and mascara can turn a really hellish day into at least a more bearable one just by being able to stand what I see in the mirror. (Chin up, Belle, your eyes look GREAT!)

Last Thursday I didn't just throw on eye makeup, I used LIP LINER. I have ESP like that, I believe. I just KNOW things. Southern women are born with this ability. It's passed down to us. As it turns out I was right, I not only needed my eyes done and my lips lined, but luminating powder as well. For 2 hours and 43 minutes I listened to a group of three professionals describe my son to me and my husband. Between hearing the sounds of Charlie Brown's teacher, I heard my own voice...Dear God, I hope he never reads this himself? Will he? When he grows up? Will he have to KNOW this? Does he already?

No, he doesn't have some terrible disease. Thank God he doesn't suffer from something terminal. He will not be put to sleep in some operating room and carved on. He is my perfect little boy. If you saw him, you'd think that too. What a good looking boy he is! He just has Aspergers or what the state of Tennessee might call an Autism Sprectrum Disorder. After I had a mini comeapart/breakdown outside the pretty gates of the Diagnostic Center, the irony of something called ASS Burgers makes my husband and me laugh so hard. Like a lot of 10 year old boys, he could spend hours laughing about flatulence. He comes up with some hilarious names to call his little brother and we can easily see him laughing over the word Aspergers.

And so it begins....I will educate myself and lean on my village for support. If you see me and I have on full paint, you'll know I am struggling a bit.