by Lillian Csernica on August 4, 2013
There may never come a day when my sons fully appreciate the sacrifices I have made for them. I know for a fact there will never come a day when I admit to them the crimes I did not commit because I couldn’t risk getting tossed in jail and being separated from them.
John’s First Grade teacher is retired now, a happy circumstance for all concerned. Now I no longer need concern myself with her arrogance, incompetence, and favoritism causing harm to the innocent children in her classes.
Michael’s newest R.N., a woman who has the gall to argue with me about how we do things for Michael, a routine constantly evolving and updated by frequent consultations with his specialists. This woman wants me to call a particular doctor and have the orders rewritten according to her idea of “what Michael really needs.”
A former male aide of John’s who liked to text while driving. I caught him doing this one day when John was in the car with him. That resulted in a small but significant mushroom cloud over my house.
Michael’s longest-term aide, who was late three days out of five, the bane of the Transportation department, and the reason Michael missed school more than once and Chris and I both missed important appointments due to waiting for this aide to finally show up. Granted, she had a long commute, but come ON. After a few months you figure out the best commute patterns.
John’s female aide who left bruises on his arms and once left him in the backseat of her car while she went into a coffee house and had a cup. If I could have laid my hands on concrete proof of that one, I’d have had her head on a pole.
My mother, who drives me to heights of foaming outrage and frustration on a regular basis. She’s Michael’s favorite person in the world, and she is THE grandparent on the West Coast, so for John’s sake I have to bite the bullet and preserve amicable relations.
Sigh…. Then there are all the little people along the way, the secretaries and the pharmacy assistants and the customer service people and the Medi-Cal voicemail creatures and the rest of the nuts and bolts in our glorious managed health care system.
I should be grateful. I should be happy that for the sake of my sons I’ve finally learned tact, diplomacy, self-restraint, and the art of committing assault and battery with politeness. I love my sons, and for the sake of that love and for their well-being I will not unleash the pent-up fury that makes my head ache and my guts churn and ties my neck muscles into knots. I should give thanks for being taught the patience to choose my battles, and the wisdom to rally the right allies. There have been times when I have indeed put the Fear of Me into several school officials and not a few medical personnel.
I am Mother. Pray that you do not hear me roar.