"Look Where You're Going, Please."

I say that about a million-dillion times a day to my un-laced, un-hemmed, un-inhibited, unruled-by-gravity boys. "Don't fall down," I say. "You're not so clever that you won't trip."

And it's true. Proven time and time, boo-boo after boo-boo, howl after howl--they will fall if they don't properly assess the situation. If they jump or race or slide, small boys tend to go down hard.
Here's the thing I kinda sorta maybe slightly and completely against my will considered yesterday, tho, that has to do with that: Mommies are just the same. If we don't look, if we don't go the necessary route in the necessary fashion at the necessary speed, if we try to get around/go under/race past something, we, too will go down hard and howl.

Now, I did not get this flair for the obvious from my own vast wisdom, believe me. My dad (who, may I just say, is a whole 'nother book of tales and one that fits right on the family shelf, IF you get my meaning...) is trying very hard to fathom this autism thing--to carry it right along with my mother's illness and figure out why the hell they just don't make brains like they used to. And it's not his thing. Really not. From a very early age, we kids got that this man neither understood, nor enjoyed our presence, but what can you do? My point being that he's never been built for this sort of thing and now he's seventy and he's trying. I'm not saying we all didn't and don't pay for what he couldn't do, but same as before, what can you do? (where was I going with this? Oh...) So he calls and he's trying to be gentle (really really can count these times on one hand, but who's counting?) and he's trying to tell me how the situation could be worse. And while every atom and every particle and every fiber in my heart is howling at him because how the fxck could he even begin to...well, we needn't go there, but while there's all this drama in my silly self, something came out of my mouth clearly without the knowledge or consent of my brain. I swear, I did not have it in me until it came out my mouth. I swear. I said to him, "Dad, LRHF is fine. He's great. He's beautiful and happy. I am struggling. I am tired and angry. I am sad. He ( e.g., LRHF) could not be better. "

I know. Totally not me-ish. Please do sit down.

So I'm rolling this around now. I think that sometimes when God speaks to us and we just keep throwing our tantrums, He must get so bloody pissed that He just sort of slaps us. Shuts us up for a darn second so He can think a minute and so He doesn't have to watch us hyperventilate. I think, I hope that those words He so briefly put in my mouth were a slap like that. A holy "will you just shut up and listen to Me for a second?" Because you know how far down in the hole I am. You know I am not handling this at all. You know I am not stepping up.

But.

Just so briefly, I guess I did look up. Heard those strange and not-me-at-all words and I looked up, mostly to see who the hell was talking, because make no mistake, I am very much still very much in that horrid, weak and dark starting place. It sucks, I'm sad and it freaking hurts. No updates in those areas. But I think that God thinks maybe I might not fall so hard or howl so loud (ly) if I look where I'm going.

Can I? doubt it.

Will I? not today.

I do sort of get His point, tho. So we'll see.