Kids will say that, but my boy really means it. He reminds himself. He tries to warn his sisters, with differing degrees of success.
I gave my firstborn life when I was 19 years old. I was a freshman in college, and I was living with his father. His father and I are friends now, we can talk without getting local LEOs involved, but back then… whoo boi. Some folks say oil and water, we were more like water and potassium. Part of my decline into madness were the insults he would hurl at me (don’t jump him, I threw out my fair share too) when we fought. He was – in my mind – the authority on all things me (having usurped the reigning queen – aka Mom), and if he said it then it must be true. Neither of us realized at the time just how mentally destructive we were for me, we just accepted that couples fight and we would get over it or move past it.
And Boy had a front row seat. I am certainly not advocating this as a good environment to raise children, but because of it my special child was/is able to see approaching meltdowns from far away and initiate evasive maneuvers. Post diagnosis I developed the tools to see it coming myself, and I hide myself from the children while I properly address it.
One afternoon my (then) husband and I took Boy to Olive Garden for early dinner. We sat down and I immediately start digging around in my purse but I cannot find my medications. I’m getting increasingly agitated at the fact that they are not there.
If you have ever eaten at Olive Garden in the early 2000s, you know that the chairs had wheels. I don’t know who thought of that clever idea, but there you have it. My (then) husband was sitting across the table from me, and Boy is sitting next to me. On the other side of Boy is a wall.
My son looks at me and says, “Mom, why do you need those pills right now?” With a perfectly straight face I turned to him and said “They keep me from going RAWR all over you.” Just as I roared I took a pseudo leap at him. He must have forgotten he was next to a wall because he launched his chair – and himself – right into it. He looked at me with eyes bright and round as silver dollars. I folded him into my arms and hugged him, he laughed and play punched me in the arm “That’s not funny Mom.”
That is how I minimize it; how we have fun with it. Yes it is a serious issue. But it is not a death sentence. And it’s hereditary, so one of them could be the next victim. And that is why we maximize the upswings. We hang out in book stores, explore “antique” shops, tell jokes, and take turns frightening each other. I don’t hide my illness from them; I just don’t let it be the centerpiece of our lives.
Chaotically Controlled 
neat story
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