Grouchy Day

I was looking through files in my computer and ran across this piece. I thought this blog would be a nice place to share it. And even though I wrote it more than a year ago, I recognize the day described as similar to ones I've lived more recently.

Grouchy Day - written Oct. 7, 2007

On Wednesday of last week, I was having too many “special mom” moments—those are moments when being the mom of a child with both intellectual and physical disabilities is more bother than blessing. My oldest son, Stross, had not managed his own medical cares well the day before, causing him to miss out on our specialized studying time. As a result, he totally bombed a modified test that his teacher’s aide had fretted over, causing her to write a very detailed note that required a very detailed response from me. Then the school nurse called needing my help (and of course I had not copied the handout the public relations class that I teach yet). Still I headed off to the high school on a rescue mission, missing my chance for lunch.

There were some more things: I didn’t get to exercise that morning; my scale seemed to be weighing me heavier than I’d remembered somehow; my computer chose an inconvenient time to display a “black box of death”; and some other pretty trivial stuff happened that I don’t care to mention here. But “things” were adding up in a way that made me grouchy; and the mood lasted into the next day. To lift my spirits, I put on a dress before heading out the door. And I felt better.

Now, some people might call that “faking it until you make it” – but I believe that’s a dangerous notion. I prefer to think of it as relying on a coping technique I know works for me. There’s nothing fake about it.

I own the life I lead, and I know how to lift my spirit in life-affirming ways when necessary. On that particular Wednesday it took a dress. On another day it might take singing a Broadway album in full voice or paging through a photo album. I might even need to call a distant friend I haven’t spoken to in months or even years.

I know what it takes to feel like me again. But only I know what that fully means. That thought alone might require me to lift my spirits to a place where I don't feel so alone. I think I'll grab a piece of dark chocolate and think about that some more.