My children are hilarious, at least that's what they tell me. Although we often tell children to speak nicely to one another, I often tell mine to "Shut the hell up." To which they laugh and smile and tell me, "Mom, put a quarter in the swear jar." To which I then reply, "Where's the fucking swear jar?" and then, they continue to laugh...
This marks the eighth week of Marriage counseling for Tim and I and, based on my aggression towards my children, it is apparently not helping. As I write this, my two teenagers are offering up suggestions as to what might be appropriate blogging material and this is what they've come up with. Needless to say, I will not be asking for their advice again. So "Shut the hell up and do your fucking homework." They are laughing again... another needless to say.
The therapist told me, getting back to my initial "report," that I need to hold myself accountable for my own actions. This is why he makes 150 dollars an hour I guess, to tell me things that I already knew. Hence, the swear jar. I guess if I don't want my children to swear, then I have to stop swearing also. Jake just walked by, out the blue and yelled "Shit," just to make Nick and I laugh. I could write a whole research paper on the joys of profanity and why it's important to swear in front of your children and at them on a regular basis. However, social services may show up immediately following the publication of said material. I don't know, when I drop something heavy on my toe, "Dang it" just doesn't cut it. So, back to my accountability... clearly this concept applies to more than just profanity. In the midst of this thought explosion, my teenagers are doing impressions of different characters from various movies interspersed with bouts of the Harlem Shake. Life is never, ever dull... Again, one more time, accountability, in my language, in my life, in my parenting and in my marriage. So, week 8.
I like the therapist. He is an interesting person although I don't really know anything about him other than he isn't married which, I don't know is relevant or, maybe it is. Tim told me that I shouldn't have asked him, but I had my own reasons for asking. I still like him and I value his insights. He is well educated, articulate, a teacher, hey, maybe I should date HIM, then again, he's divorced, not a good track record and he's even older than Tim so I guess that's out. I was sitting on campus the other day, drinking my coffee outside, it was such a beautiful morning and I was listening to the conversation of the girl sitting across from me, well the conversation between her and her cell phone which clearly had a guy on the other line with whom she was engaged in a tumultuous relationship. She was attempting to explain "abcout the other night," but she wasn't being successful because her explanation was punctuated by words like "Nuh uh" and "Wait, I never said that." I sat, and I immediately thought to myself, "Thank God I'm no longer dating..." The energy that it would take to re-invent myself and then to throw myself back into the dating pool, hell, it's easier to go to marriage counseling. It's probably just the fact that I haven't "dated" in so long; I wouldn't even know where to begin.
Having said that, well, having written that, not to split hairs, I must confess that I look forward to going to the sessions every week; I have begun to learn some interesting and useful things about Tim and about myself, although the three of us have spent the last two sessions laughing about our idiosyncratic behaviors "She uses my towel even when I tell her not to" or "There should be a DEFCON sign outside the door of the house so I know what kind of mood she's in." Mainly, he leaves it up to us to determine what we will say and how we will say it and then we leave it open ended for the next session. There is still MUCH to discuss in the weeks to come, but I think it's working; so far, I am despising Tim much less. The kids are laughing again as I say this out loud.
During our sixth session, the therapist was listening to something that I was saying and when I was finished, he turned to me and said, "Yvette, have you ever thought that you might have ADD?" Now, I joke about this regularly with everyone who is close to me and especially with my students. Yes, I have thought about it, but in a frantic, papers flying everywhere, hands flailing, "schizophrenic" kind of way. I had not really given it "serious" thought. So, the therapist and I discussed it, I took the DSM IV and Bam! Who knew? I have it or, more accurately, it has me. I'm usually the person who skips the self help aisle at the bookstore and, unless someone recommends a title that is specifically related to me, to my children or to our existence as a family, I skip it. I am not moved by other people telling me what to do and how to live and who to be, instead I am interested in looking at the situation from multiple perspectives and then deciding on what is applicable for me. I guess that sums up the purpose of marriage counseling. Tim and I don't fight, we don't generally yell at one another, we tend to use laughter and sarcasm to hide the deeper issues that, now, after 20 years together are seeping through the fabric that should "bind" us together. I don't like that word bind, but it seemed appropriate, so, there you go. As we move into the next month of weekly meetings, we have agreed that it is time to pull out the big guns and to examine some of the reasons why we don't communicate in a "better" way, I mean, if you still LIKE someone after 20 years together and you know that you love them, then, self help crap aside, communication is key and can make things better. I am in the process of remembering what I liked the most about Tim early on and simultaneously I am reminded of what irritates me the most as well.
So, back to my ADD. The official diagnosis has explained a great deal and it has left me in a tailspin. While I understand Jake a LOT more now, I am also at a loss as to what this means for my children, collectively speaking. Not a day goes by when I don't wonder if my children would be more successful in all of their endeavors with a mother that was more organized, kinder, not as impulsive, one who grocery shops. Jake just went to the refrigerator, looked inside, and yelled, "Why are there no dranks?" "There is only Ketchup and Maple Syrup." Then Tim said, "There's Margarita Mix" so Jake grabbed and swallowed a huge gulp, then spit it out while Tim laughed. Maybe that's poor parenting on Tim's part, but it was as funny as hell. Maybe that's not ADD related, but social services might come knocking anyway.
So many people have a diagnosis that I can't really throw myself a pity party; that's not my purpose here anyway, but lately, I haven't been feeling like myself. The past six months or so, I've felt different, less motivated, less willing to "try" and I don't know what to attribute it to. I've also felt extraordinarily overwhelmed by everything, so much so, that instead of starting, I just don't do it at all. The therapist suggested making a daily list, but every time I look at the list, my heart starts to race and I feel overwhelmed again. So, I continue to deal with missed appointments, stacks of paper lying around the house, laundry that gets washed three times before it goes in the dryer because I can't remember if I washed it for the first time, no groceries in the house, split tires on my car and a deep seeded lack of drive to complete the things that are most, or have been, most important in my life up until now. I feel exhausted and sad, deeply at risk so to speak. I know it's not "ADD," that, truly, it is a process of looking at the big picture and taking in the things that make me happy and that make me sad, of accepting "the things that I cannot change," but ultimately, it's about recognizing that for which I am most grateful and maybe all that can be said is that I am as fucked up as the next person.
My students asked me the other day if they could make a video with me doing the Harlem Shake and, after they explained what it is, I said, "Sure." I'm positive that it will show up on Youtube any day now. If it does, remember that I disclosed my diagnosis and I plead "Couldn't remember" when I actually took it on and agreed.
The therapist has a sign above his bookshelf that reads, "The best thing that a father can do for his children is to love their mother." Maybe it should be simpler, "The best thing that a mother can do for her children is to love herself." And, to put a quarter in the swear jar...
