My heart

I gave birth to him blind from pain and full of joy.  My second child, my only son, the beat of my heart.

Today the pain is no less blinding, for different reasons.

It started several months ago as occasional behavior issues at school.  He would lose his temper if disciplined and slam his desk on the floor or some other short-lived burst of fury.  We all chalked it up to normal childhood behavior growth.  After all, he's only seven. 

Slowly, but consistently, the outbursts became more regular and more violent.  A mild correction became the end of the world and he began to turn his rage inward.  Words like "I hate myself" started showing up on the back of his school papers.  Meetings were called, plans were devised, and tears were shed.  The next step is a child psychologist to help me find the correct path, as I've tried everything I know to do on my own. 

He has tested gifted, far above his 2nd grade level.  He is showing signs of perfectionism and anxiety, outwardly expressed by harm to himself via dialogue and physical means.  My baby is starting to hurt himself out of frustration when he doesn't measure up to what his little, genius mind is telling him he should be.  No amount of praise and adoration seems to break through his shell of self-criticism.  No matter how many times I assure him that he is perfect in my eyes and his happiness is the most important thing in the world.  He is his own worst enemy.

At home, he's happy and loving.  It's only in certain situations that his uncertainty manifests itself.  I watch him play in the evenings and wonder what they (his teachers) see during the day that I'm missing.  There are no outbursts here, no sadness.  I worry that he's trying to protect me.  I worry that he's not really happy when he's singing and dancing and playing with his Legos, and he's really putting on a show for Mommy.  I worry.  I worry.

My heart is in a billion pieces for my precious, sensitive, funny little boy.  If it takes every one of those billion pieces to help him find peace, I will live the rest of my days without them. 

He holds them in his little hands, anyway.

My dog is a better person than I am

My dog thinks I’m awesome.

There are some days when that thought alone keeps me from drinking bleach.  You know those days....the car breaks down, your kids think you’re the dumbest human alive, a creditor calls and gets nasty about an ex’s bill, and your boss takes credit for your work.  Then you walk in the front door to the most sincere, happy greeting ever.  Sure, the dog loves me because I keep him alive and pick up his poo, but I’ll take it.

I don’t have the stereotypical chick dog; He’s big, muscular, and a bit scary.  He’s also the biggest love-fest-smooshie-dog ever.  Sure, he’ll eat your face off if you step foot in our house without being invited in, but that’s part of his job as he sees it.  He is here to keep his family safe.  And to eat the bacon-flavored paper towels out of the trash bin.  It’s his destiny.

There are days when I am a total jerk.  I yell at him for doing dog things.  I don’t let him bark at the neighbors who are TOO CLOSE TO THE FENCE!  DANGER!!  I don’t let him lick my face until he’s exhausted.  I take away the giant sticks he drags into the house.  Yet, he comes right back for more.  He has forgiven me for being a butthead immediately, every single time.  He doesn’t even pee in my closet to get back at me.

What must that be like?  Can you imagine someone yelling at you for no reason that you can understand, and responding by loving them completely? It has occurred to me that this drooling, farting animal is more emotionally mature than any human I know.  He knows how to be happy when he’s not being treated fairly.  He forgives when he’s misunderstood.  He loves with his whole heart all of the time, with no expectations or strings attached.  And he is darn happy to do it.

Sure, some people might take advantage of those who forgive easily and love freely, but imagine how happy a life without resentment could be.  When I grow up, I want to be just like my dog.  Without the mustard gas farts, of course.

Time to document the crazy

"Bah, you should really write this stuff down.  Nobody would believe it wasn't fiction."

That's what a friend of mine said to me earlier in the week after a day filled with what can only be categorized as odd coincidences and mishaps.  Then I thought, Wait a minute!  I can blog it!

I used to blog a lot, but for some reason I lost the desire about four years ago.  I think I missed it. 

Welcome to The World of Bah.  Suckers.