No More Cheese, Please

Obviously, after last night and the past several days (or weeks), I haven't been in the greatest of moods today. I woke Bob up this morning, and he immediately thrust his hand out at me and shouted "no kisses!" Love you too, kid. So I started to walk away, and he demanded my return and a hug. I obliged, because dammit, it was 8:00 in the morning and I try to keep the drama to a minimum until at least 8:30. Instead of giving me a hug, he tried to untie my robe (I was naked underneath). Then he thrust his hands into my robe pockets and attempted to hang there, suspended by pockets of polyester plush.

And all I can do is think, Jesus, can't you just wake up, say "good morning," give me a hug, and go about your business? Like a normal kid?

And therein lies the problem. Bob isn't normal. He may never be normal. And I have yet to accept that. Like I told Ben, I've been making plans for his college education, when it may be more realistic for me to just hope he graduates from high school, with or without a criminal record.

And that's a very swift blow to any parent. Especially when the evidence isn't so clear-cut as an unfavorable result on a prenatal screen, or a low APGAR score, or an obvious physical deformity. My kid looks normal. Sometimes, dare I say, he even acts normal. But the things that set him apart are things the rest of the world doesn't understand or doesn't believe in or is afraid of or all of the above. And the differences are subtle, subtle enough to make others wonder if they really exist at all, or is that kid just the result of bad parenting? Or just a bad seed?

(I hate that term, by the way--"bad seed." As if some kids are just born inherently evil. What the fuck? Would you look at a kitten and consider the possibility it may be evil? Well, sadly, I'm sure some ignorant dumbasses probably would.)

And Bob isn't a bad kid. Sometimes it's hard for even me to remember that. When he has "episodes" like this, where every day is a damn struggle, and I find myself wanting to be far, far away from him more often than not--it's hard to remember that this kid, who bears no resemblance to my kid, is one and the same. This kid that just told me to "go lay an egg" and has threatened to kill me if I didn't procure him a Happy Meal is the same kid who so proudly handed me a wrapped Christmas gift yesterday afternoon when I picked him up at school, and watched as I unwrapped it, and beamed as I exclaimed what a lovely calendar he had made and what a great job he'd done on all of the illustrations.

I told him I'd take the calendar to my office and hang it up, and it's on my desk now, waiting for January. I've flipped through it a few times today, and every time I do, I cry. Because he's mine, and I love him, and I'm so worried about his future, and I know there's only so very little I can do to make things turn out one way or another for him.

I just hope he knows. I hope he knows how much he is loved, and how I would give anything just to keep him safe forever.

Anyway...since I can't drink, or partake of many other vices that might drown my sorrows, I decided to splurge on a little lunch today at...

don't laugh.

Olive Garden.

I wanted salad. And breadsticks. And the soup wasn't damn bad, either. But what did me in was the appetizer I decided I couldn't live without--"smoked mozzarella fonduto." Which loosely translates into "big ass bowl of melted cheese and a loaf of lightly toasted bread."

Fuck. Yeah.

I finished it. And licked the bowl. That's right--licked the bowl.

And I am not ashamed.