Poetry Abounds Again

What I’m going to write about this week has nothing to do with, or at least directly deals with my husband’s disability. My story begins with a note I wrote to my daughter’s boyfriend after being informed that they were asked to babysit on Valentine’s Day.

Derek,

I ask that you decline to babysit, seeing that it is Ginet’s first Valentine’s Day with a beau. It was unfair of Jessica to ask you to babysit on Valentine’s. There are others that can do so. (And a few more words were added, but this is the important part of the note.)

Somewhere between the night I left the note in Derek’s shoe as he played in the mud in our front yard, the day of the family pictures, and just before the night my granddaughters returned from their father,s, Jessica calls, hollering about the note I left Derek.

Screaming: “He offered . . . what right—“

Self: “I was told—“

Screaming: “No mom, you’re going to listen to me, you’re not going to say a word; I didn’t ask, he offered; and we don’t ask everyone to watch our kids; where do you—“

Self: “I didn’t say anything about you asking every—“

Screaming: “Listen to me; we’re not asking anyone to do anything; we don’t come over anymore because you don’t have the time; you act like we are in your way . . . .”

I allow her to continue for awhile, but once she says I act like they don’t exist and don’t involve her in anything, I become the scream.

SCREAM: “I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS GARBAGE. NONE OF IT WAS IN THE LETTER. I HAVE PAPERS TO GRADE AND STUDYING TO DO. I’M HANGING UP NOW, JESS; I CAN’T ARGUE WITH YOU; I CAN’T LISTEN TO YOUR SCReAMING; I DON’T HAVE TIME TO DEAL WITH YOUr MISINTERPRETATION! BYE!”

I hang up.

About an hour later, I receive three consecutive texts, stating how I don’t treat her like my daughter, that I ignore her and, in her words, that she may as well be dead.

My response was no response to her, just a quizzical look on my face, telling my husband about the texts, and reading it out loud to Ginet. Poor Ginet, she felt like a dog caught in a fence.

I smile to myself and begin to poetically respond. This is what came of the whole event.

“I am selfish.”

I call when you can come over

My door is always locked

My refrigerator is key-coded

My pets smell like a rose garden

My house is immaculate—never a spot

My yard has DO NOT WALK ON THE GRASS

My concerns are only about my future; this is why I’m always broke

I’m only forced into sharing

I’m only forced into compliance

Yes, I am always busy

I sniff roses only when I grow them

The birds dive into my windows

Chlorine, Lysol, and Murphy’s Oil soap keep the rats away

Friends call me every night to dance: this is why I’m always home

My last semester of graduate school (9 credit hours)

Teach elementary composition times 2

My door revolves on loose hinges

Time sneaks in momentarily: Goo; Gaa; Patty-cake

Water-line breaks

Hot water heater out

Not enough room for a wheelchair

I only wish for “Sleepless in Seattle”

Mother Goose never had this many eggs

Does this sound about right? I give up hours to do many different things for many of the children; give up money—most of which I never see again (my house payment, my car payment, my electric bill payment, and more and more and more, right down to my gas for their vehicles or more for mine after use by them). Go on, say it! I let it happen; WE let it happen. We do, a great downfall we have—love for our children that is misdirected all to often with allowing them to step over us to where they don’t know the word NO, or how to SEE beyond their own four walls.

Hmm, I wonder how Jess heard about the letter?

No matter; I take the blame and go on. I can’t dwell on this situation. It is minute to what I must take care of—my husband and my well-being to keep doing exactly what we have always been doing—loving them all as we only know how to do.