I scowl at myself in the mirror; I haven't had time to color my hair, between all my son's therapy appointments. Well, there's nothing I can do, I must be off to get ravaged. I jump into my beat-up Beetle.
I arrive at the penthouse, and C. answers. Before I know it, he's got both of my hands in a steel grip above my head.
All I can think is, Hmmm... I'm worried about the big meeting at school tomorrow. Is my son going to get the extra therapy he needs? Or am I in for a battle?
Suddenly I am a quivering mess. I can only imagine what lies ahead. I want those speech therapy sessions, bad.
His long fingers stroke my neck.
My head swims uncomfortably. Stay calm, I tell myself, you've been through IEPs before, you'll get what you need.
He is massaging my right shoulder, relentlessly.
Did I re-order the anti-seizure medication? I hope so, because I'm not sure there's enough to get through the weekend.
Stop it, I command myself.
Now he is massaging my left shoulder, relentlessly.
And then slowly the excitement builds, for I have realized that tomorrow the update for the speech app is coming out! How delicious will that be!
His hand grabs my hair.
Uh-oh: Did I fill out those health forms for camp? Sigh. Every week, more forms.
I writhe with worry as I picture my inner goddess at a desk, filling out an endless pile of forms. I close my eyes, feeling the buildup pushing me higher to more anxiety.
Whipping! Yes, yes, yes:
My anxiety must be whipped into submission.
"Look at me," C. says, insistently. I stare into his smoldering gaze. "Have you worked out four times this week?"
"No," I admit, breathlessly. "I haven't had time because I've spent hours on the phone with the insurance company trying to sort out all the unpaid claims."
"Have you been snacking between meals?" he asks, demandingly.
"Well, uh, there were some graham crackers in the cupboard that the speech therapist was using for oral-motor therapy, and I've been nibbling on them. I am such a naughty girl."
His expression pulls at that dark, anxious part of me.
"It is so difficult juggling it all," I sigh, breathily. "I am often 50 shades of freaked!"
Throbbing. My head is throbbing.
Boldly, he spins me toward the wall. He strikes my bottom, hitting a large bulge.
"What is that?" he asks, throatily.
"Oh! Those are the special cushioned socks I got for my son's foot braces, I meant to try them on him!" I say. "Tee hee!"
I happen to glance at the clock. Oh! No!
"You beguile me," I say, "But I have to be going, because I have a conference call with our district special-ed liaison."
I extract myself from his grasp. "So long, for now," I whisper, and dash out the door.
