My son Connor has had a dry, grunt-like cough for the last couple of days and Isabelle has the sniffles. Neither of them have a cold. Connor does have asthma but I fear that the cough is not related to a respiratory issue nor is Isabelle’s sniffing.
Seems my kids aren’t sick. I should be glad, right? Instead I’m sick with worry.
I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop ever since Madeline was diagnosed with Tourettes two years ago. My fourth child was six months old at the time and I knew that Tourettes was genetic. I also knew that chances were good that any or all of my other three children may have inherited it and I felt terribly guilty that I may have passed the gene to all of them. I’m not so sure that I would have gone on to have more biological children if Madeline had been my only child at the time of her diagnosis.
But they are here and I truly do feel that they are the children I was meant to have. They are my greatest blessings.
I love them so much that it hurts.
All that I have ever wished for is that they would have healthy and happy lives so I do my best to handle the hand I’ve been dealt. Ninety-nine percent of the time I do a pretty good job of coping but that one percent tends to put me on my pity pot. Fortunately I don’t sit on it for too long before I’m able to put things back in perspective and once again be thankful for what I have.
I’m on the pity pot today. Connor and Isabelle’s cough and sniffles have me paranoid that they are tics and I fear that I’m seeing the early signs of Tourettes.
I fear that their lives aren’t going to be easy and dealing with that is not going to be easy on me. My mother has bipolar, OCD, ADD, and a Borderline Personality Disorder and her life has not been easy. I fear that one or more of my children will be as mentally ill as she is and it scares the crap out of me.
Sure, I can deal.
I’ve had so much therapy over the years that therapeutic talk is my second language. I know that I’m the perfect mom for these kids. The thing is I don’t want to do it. Not when I’m on my pity pot.
I want to be like parents of “normal children” who have never given their child a prescription medication other than an antibiotic or don’t have to spend two hours helping their child with homework that should have only taken 30 minutes.
I’m just so tired.
I’m so tired of temper tantrums, handing out pills, worrying about self injury from impulsive behavior, homework arguments, appointments with pediatric neurologists and language therapists, fearing what the future holds, blah, blah, blah, oh woe is me.
So I give myself permission to whine and to mourn the unattainable “perfectly normal” children that I sometimes feel cheated of.
Then I put on my big girl panties and get some rest so I can once again feel 99% thankful and blessed for the family I have.
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