Ugly Crying and Counting Crows

I have been like a ticking time bomb this week.  Does that happen to other moms or is that just me?  If it is just me then do me a big fat favor and keep it to yourself.  Nobody wants to hear how damn happy you are!

Sometimes I feel like the love and concern that I feel for my children is going to be the undoing of me.  And it will, I'm sure.   By the time they are tweens, if everything is going as planned, I will hear, "I hate you! No one understands me!" on a regular basis.  I've already heard that a couple of times this week as I'm trying to poor pink gunk down Nana's throat every three hours.  She has had a wicked case of strep since Wednesday (yes, we are the streppyist family in America) and I have had to take her to the ER, (104.5 temp that kept rising) which was about as much help as calling my husband's Macedonian grandma for help.  No, less help!  Because all they did was give her an icepack and some Tylenol after a two hour wait.   Babo's vinegar sponge bath probably would have been more effective, if stinky. Days later, she still has a 103 degree temp but seems to be in less pain and moves around too much when her fever reducer kicks in.

Admittedly, I am a nut about having a scary-sick kid.  Yes, I am that parent who asks the doctor a million questions and calls after hours.  But, honestly, I am not sorry.  It occurred to me that I have no shame about getting help when we need it because we only have ONE Savannah.  She is precious and for whatever crazy reason, God put her in my care. 

I will be doing the same thing when she is a teenager and refuses to talk to me...asking friends a million questions (their views on premarital sex) and calling her boyfriend's parents after hours.  I will attach GPS tracking devices to their backpacks and sniff them every time they walk in the door. Uncle Mark will sit on the front porch sporting his rifle if any bad apples come sniffing around. I will NOT however, ground them for listening to loud, rap music! Mom and Dad, you had SUCH bigger fish to fry than Tupac Shakur, but there is no need to rehash old drama.  No need at all.  

When I feel like this, my head clouded with worry about everything from Scarlett fever to global warming to the possibility of being smashed into smithereens by a Mack truck, leaving my children motherless, I try not to do anything impulsive.  Sometimes though, just sometimes, you need to drive to the Target parking lot with the windows rolled down and ugly cry, while listening to Counting Crows.  After all, why would God give us the ability to cry, if we weren't supposed to use it?  By the time I get home I am calmer, even though nothing has changed.  

I wrote my husband a note today about everything that was starting to boil over in my mind.  Honestly, I expected him to scoff and say, "Lady, you don't even know what stress is!" because he is a pretty stressed out dude.  What I got instead was a note back that said, "What can I say? I get it. Go do what you've gotta do."  When Counting Crows and I got home, I gave him a hug and said "Thanks. That was the right thing to say."  Like most men, he does not say a lot about feelings, but the words he chooses are usually right.  Best of all, he does not hold a grudge when I am all squinty eyed and behaving badly.

Think I'll keep him.