it takes a village

Oh my god.



Or at least he was today. At our friend's birthday lunch. At our other friend's fabulous new house. 

First he came for the shrubbery, and I did not speak up because I was not a shrubbery. 
He murdered a cactus. 
He pinched it. 
To death. 
He brutally assaulted the neighbor's pine tree that, okay, yes, looked pretty much like it needed a mercy killing, but still. 

Then he came for the appetizers, and I did not speak up because I was not an appetizer. 
He ate blackberries on my friend's beige suede couch. 
He crawled into a chair at the dining room table and blocked everyone else from eating the chips. He took a decorative lemon and put it in the dog water bowl. 
Then he picked up the bowl and whispered. "Dump it."

Then he came for the guest room, and I did not speak up because I was sitting on the floor in the guest room weeping as he went boneless, flailing on the ground in the most massive and spectacular melt down I have seen yet. 
He pulled a Vietnamese cook book from the guest room shelf and screamed "READ DIS," then slapped it out if my hands when I opened it to begin reading. 
He staggered to the window and shrieked "WHITE CLOUDS! TOUCH IT!" And then went boneless again when I suggested we pretend to touch the white clouds. 
The ones in the sky. 
I wasn't being withholding. 
If I could give you a cloud to touch don't you think I would do it? Just to stop the screaming?

And then he came for me. 
And my village spoke up. 

When he lunged for the stairs, determined to end it all or at least give mommy something fun to do while she was breast-feeding Buster, someone was there to stop him. 

When he tried to mount the neighbor's fern like Tobey Maguire in Seabiscuit, someone was there with a blow-up dinosaur to lure him away. 

When all was lost, someone saved the day with a chocolate-covered strawberry to buy his silence. 

Someone brought me wine and a plate of food. 

Someone changed Buster, and sat next to him while he dozed on the couch, making sure he didn't somehow roll off. 

Someone was there to respond to my text of "Fuck me. This is fucking horrible," with "you need booze and cake, stat."

And when Chicken came back in the house from his last-chance resetting walk with Ryan, everyone was happy to see him. 

Even, improbably, inescapably, me.

A village where tantrums are waited out with poise, and forgiven and forgotten without a second thought, where mommies and daddies get drinkies and sweeties to get them through these dark, dark times. 
It's a good place to be. 
Thanks guys.


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