I’m relieved sometimes when Teen1 doesn’t come home. It is just so much easier.
It didn’t start off this way. I’ve spent three months with mounting anxiety and little sleep. I’ve been in shock at how fast all this has happened. Sometimes when the front door is slammed in my face as T1 walks out the door, I stand for minutes at a time blinking moronically at it, as the shock waves work their way through my brain and nervous system.
I live in dread of him coming back in asking for something – usually for money – knowing it will develop into an argument when I’ll be accused of parental neglect bordering on the criminal, followed by shouted insults and a slammed door. He isn’t the only one raising his voice, as much as I try to keep breathing, slowing down, and waiting before opening my mouth – arrrrgh. The one thing I try to hold inside myself is not to let this boy make me feel guilty – for not giving him money, or for the starving millions of children and the drought in Africa that he somehow in the course of his demands ends up accusing me of perpetrating. Sometimes I’ll be left feeling doubly bereft at the state of the world AND at my own situation.
One recent evening, when I had no idea where T1 was, or when he’d be back, I realized that the house was quiet. I’d eaten dinner with T2 and T3, and had optimistically rented a couple of dvds. Seizing the moment - and a box of chocolates - the three of us snuggled down on the couch and watched The Time Traveller’s Wife together (definitely not the usual type of movie my 10 and 12 year old would choose to watch) – but they enjoyed it. Or maybe they enjoyed the experience of cuddling on the couch together more than the movie. Or maybe it was simply because we were together and a feeling of peace had descended on us. Or maybe because this was another opportunity for them to have me on about crying at the sad, soppy parts of the movie.
On another evening, with T1 not having turned up after school or for dinner, T2 and T3 snuggled on my bed and we somehow ended up making up fantastical (and fabulously capitalistic) stories about what the house of our dreams would look like. Theirs had indoor pools with 2, 5 and 10m diving boards, slides instead of staircases as well as a slide from the bedroom window to the outdoor pool, PS3s and TVs in every room, a massive rumpus room with a bouncing castle built in to it, an Italian chef who could cook meals from (no less than) 5 countries, a fizzy drink dispenser, and a butler. Mine had a kitchen with a gelato maker with all the flavours imaginable. It was mum-children make-believe time like we used to have at bed times, and it was ridiculous and silly and fun.
So there’s the dirty secret. There are times, few admittedly, when not having T1 around can be a relief. For a while I can forget that he has gone out into the night. For a while I can just be a mum with my other boys. I can be in my own home without coming under attack for not having any food in the house (as he stuffs a cheese, avocado, salad sandwich into his mouth, grabs the apples, drinks some juice, and throws muesli bars into his back pack), or for not having his sweatshirt washed (it is buried in the ‘floordrobe’ under everything else), or for not giving him money, or for… well, breathing some of the time. It is nice without him around. It is nice to detach my Self from him.
I tell myself that he will be ok, that he’s making some stupid choices, he and I will get through this stage and I am going to be kind to myself. But then, I find myself still awake, not knowing where my son is, and the fingers of dread spread inside my heart.
Wishing you deep and peaceful sleeps.
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