Monday, June 28, 2010

Pile of Poop

John: Gracey, you might want to think about looking around for babysitting jobs.

Diane: (rudely interrupting) She is totally not qualified for babysitting other people's children.

Gracey: (looking up from her plate of dinner food) Wow! That's not real nice.

What just happened? What came into my soul to prompt me to make such a hurtful statement, at the dinner table, in front of everyone about my very own daughter whom I love?

Three things come to mind, two of which are probably not the case, but you never know.

a) I truly have given into the genetic potential of schizophrenia and have basically lost control of those social filters that keep me out of an asylum.

b) I subconsciously wanted to provide Gracey with the material she needed when she goes to therapy one day, which is her dream.

c) I was frustrated over the fact that we had another stinkin' Open House and were all needed on deck to prepare the house. When I got to Gracey's room, she was all asleep in bed, her desk was a mess with garbage and stuff and you couldn't even open her closet doors with all of the stuff she has jammed in there. Once "awake" she slips downstairs and lays down on the sofa as dusting and vacuuming and lugging stuff here and there are taking place all around her. I was so frustrated that I think I said something about "lazy piles of poop" (although I used the "s" word instead of "poop", which always scares the children because I never swear) in a conversation I had with John as he stood there sweating. He was holding the mop with his left hand and wiping his forhead with the back of his right hand. He glances over to the sofa where the lump of poop is laying, and says, "You might want to get up, Grace. I don't think I can protect you any longer."

And so it goes. The Open House went well, the day played itself out, everyone seems happy.....until dinner time when I make my hurtful remark.

After the dishes are done and all family members are once again occupied in their personal pursuits of entertainment, I walk over to the Wii, where Gracey is playing a Mario game of one kind or another. I gently brush her hair back with my hand - which is weird because she is exactly as tall as me, so it's more of a person to person intimate moment as opposed to a mother to daughter intimate moment - and say, "I am really sorry I hurt your feelings."
"It's okay, Mom." Her eyes are bright, I notice as they penetrate mine.


1 comment:

Julie said...

You have reminded me to think, then speak. Thank you.