25 Years Later, The Husband I've Always Wanted

After 25 years of marriage, I finally have the handy husband I always wanted . . . Me.  Without any training or aptitude, I have become family tech support, light bulb changer, leak diagnostician, appliance trouble shooter and all around handy-person.  I'm the go-to gal when the internet, cable, computers, television and mobile devices frustrate rather than function.  I shovel snow, chop ice and defrost cars . . . while living in a house of men.  I alone hold the magic to changing the temperature in the house . . . hubby still doesn't know which thermostats control heat and A/C and the kids don't even bother to try.   I may be the second shortest in the family, but I'm the one climbing on cabinets and standing on chairs to reach stuff and change all but the highest bulbs.  I also must have the best eyesight despite the strongest prescription glasses - no one else notices that lights are out or items broken.    

No Magic Blue Pill Here

This is the pillbox of my nine-year-old.  You read that correctly:  my nine-, not ninety-, year-old.   Prescriptions for seven days of the week with am and pm dosing. Specifically, he takes four pills in the morning (although, for full disclosure, three are the same medication since that is the only way to get 30mg) and two in the evening.  None are blue . . . not that that matters.   More importantly and unfortunately, they are not magic.

Faced with a cornucopia of acronym diagnoses from the DSM-IV, medication is the prescribed remedy.  We (or perhaps I should say he) have tried assorted meds from different pharmaceutical categories in varied doses, both short- and long-acting, in assorted combinations . . . without much success.  We just can’t shake the right cocktail.  As a result, my kitchen counter is a virtual pharmacopeia of current and rejected drugs.

I look at my stash and wonder how I got here.  Just ten years ago, I scoffed at the notion of drugging my kids.  My eldest tried sugar pills before Ritalin.  Yes, we did ultimately go pharmaceutical, but not without a fight.  Alas, there was no placebo effect from sugar.  As time and children progressed, my anti-med resolve weakened.  By the time we got to the third kid, I was asking for the narcotics. 

Now, I beg that they work.  With each new prescription, hope rises . . . and fades.   My counter gets more and more crowded.  

The Unconscious Mother

Unconscious or subconscious? . . . or maybe it's just sleeping . . . Regardless, I'm a mother under all conditions.

Yesterday, I dropped my eldest at the airport for a flight to Europe where he and a friend will travel to several countries on their own with limited itinerary constraints and without any adult escorts.  [I know, I know, technically they're adults but that's not the point; they're still young and in their teens, even if only for a few more months.]   I did not park and escort him to the gate.  I didn't text him at the airport.  I asked only that he let us know when he's about to take off and when he lands.  And then I went about my life, attending to his brothers.

At 3:30 am I bolted awake in bed.  Unconsciously, subconsciously and half-asleep, I turned on the news and watched until after 4.  Still talking about Bin Laden.  Possible retaliations.  But, no plane disasters.  I breathed easy.  And turned on repeats of RHoNYC.  I then realized that my son's plane was scheduled to land at approximately 4 am our time.  The maternal alarm had gone off without a premeditated setting.