And writers write.
So what’s my problem?
Part of it is that writing about something in a structure format is different from
spewing out my crazy ramblings offering up a quick blog post.
A bigger issue for me, though, is the increase in my kid’s tics.
It’s not that I’m so sad that I can’t form a sentence. It’s that I don’t know what sentence to write to finish the book.
Truth be told, I had really hoped this Ticnoir would have a dramatic story but a shiny happy ending: “Here’s where my life fell apart post-diagnosis… here’s where my marriage hit the skids… here is where my two big writing gigs went away… but here’s where Rex and I fall back in love and I’m content with motherhood and my $42.51/month on Ebay and all Stink’s tics are gone! Woo hoo!”
After a few years dealing with T.S., I had no real illusions that there would be a magic bullet for tics. But after all the diet and all the supplements. After all the good sleeping and trying out meds… I certainly didn’t think the tics would be worse.
And yet, they are.
And for the end of a book, that totally blows.
It’s like going to a movie about a woman who loses her high paying job and then has a hard time making her mortgage. She has a hard time feeding her kids and her husband gets sick with MS.
But then, a la It’s A Wonderful Life, the community pitches in. In the last scene of the movie she gets a ton of cash from her church and some fat kid gives her the last nickel in his piggy back. This woman not only saves her house, but has enough funding left over to re-do her kitchen. Her husband was misdiagnosed and her kids have more organic food than they know what to with! There are cheers and shouts and tears of joy! But then, in the last scene, some thug socks her over the head on the subway and steals her huge wad of cash. Her husband gets squashed by a Gremlin and she and her kids go homeless, eating 99 Cent store Mac N Cheese forever. The End.
Who wants that kind of ending? And really, if you’re going to get hit by car, wouldn’t you rather get hit by a Porsche?
I suppose, in a way, this is my apology to you: Sorry, suckers. I couldn’t fix your kid’s T.S.. You can stop reading now.
But again, and I mean this (waaaay deep down): Enter whisper: “If you can’t fix the tics… fix yourself.”
I really am.
And for what it’s worth, I’m supporting you along your way.
The Bottom Line
Does everything we do to help our kids through diet and healthy choices and meds (if needed) help? Yes. I do believe it does. I believe it could be far worse without it.
Ten years old is hard for any kid – especially kids with tics. But this is a season.
I’m not in the emotional toilet. As I tell my blog friend, Margaret, “I am not in the bell jar.” Ring ring ring the bell! Maybe that’s the happy ending. That I’m learning to roll with life and never give up. I’m learning to… enter my other theme, “Accept the tics I cannot change, change the tics I can, and have the wisdom to know the difference.”
Hang tight, all!
* Photo of me and Topanga T when I was 4 sent by my cousin, D D. Little did I know, at that innocent age, what a ride life would be. But maybe I had the right idea back then. When times get tough, get dancing.