Recently we qualified for 'in home respite care' (babysitting). And I feel guilty. By some point system that makes my older son sound like a monster, we are reimbursed for a set amount of respite care this year from our Regional Center (services for people with disabilities). And I feel guilty.
Why do I feel guilty?
This morning we started off Christmas break by me making the bad bad bad mistake of taking both of the boys to their yearly well visits at the pediatrician's office. Both boys. By myself. To a doctor. Who demands they undress for inspection. And tries to question me at the same time thinking I can focus and provide relevant, useful information. On a Monday morning.
Sometime in between the screaming and throwing of shirts, shoes, and pants...
Sometime in between the bribing with stickers, restraining of hands and feet, and chasing impulsivity down the hallway...
Sometime in between the doctor looking exasperated and me wanting to crawl under or dare I say hurl a chair...
Sometime during the 15 minute never-ending appointment...
The doctor made sure the boys' hearts were still beating, their penises were still attached at the right places, and their lungs were still clearly expanding and contracting. At least that's all I could tell she actually accomplished.
Sometime after the examinations, the doctor told me that maybe I should suggest moving to a higher dose of Bubba's medication to the developmental pediatrician we see soon (who monitors the more, um, complicated part of the boys).
Sometime after the doctor tried to blackmail the boys into dressing themselves, she asked me how I managed to accomplish anything. And as one of them bolted out of the office, I proclaimed, "It isn't always like this!"
And after all of that, someone watched the boys (or rather played trains with them) for a couple of hours while I cleaned the kitchen, went to buy a new belt for the vacuum cleaner, and did various other pointless chores that have already since been 'undone.' And I paid her. With money that was basically given to me.
And I feel so flippin' guilty.
And now Bubba is crying because he lost a teeny tiny bolt from a toy. Convulsive sobs. Snotty tears. If it is anything like yesterday when it took me over an hour to convince an emotional Bubba that no matter what he did, Christmas Eve would not come right then, I am out of service for awhile. So much for that $1 store toy occupying him while I make more frickin' Christmas cookies.
Respite lady? YooHoo, Respite lady! I need to buy some more guilt.