I Got It

You know what Honey Badgers Don't Give?

You know what honey badgers don’t give?

It’ s a bit frightening to see a three year old with the attitude, spunk, foot stomping, and mad manipulation skills that took me nearly 19 years or so to master.

I fear for her parents.

She and her brother are like the sun and moon–I’m just not sure which is which.  She–the younger by 2 years–is blonde and fluffy; he’s dark and slender.  Their physical attributes are the least of their dissimilarities.

While the boy craves approval, and, thus, rarely actively misbehaves, the girl is a three-year-old honey badger with curls.  Approval isn’t something she strives for, instead, it is something she bestows upon those around her if the mood so hits her.

Despite these differences, despite their sibling squabbles, it is so evident that they love each other, very, very much.  If one falls down, the other is right there, even in the middle of having a hissy-fit, to pat the other on the back and say, “It’s all right, Bubba,” or “It’s all right, Boo.”

They hug. They dance. They fight.

They are amazing.

Two of the girl’s favorite phrases are “No” and “I got it.”

“I want” ranks pretty high up on the list, too.

We’ll ask her to get her shoes; we’ll say to someone else, “I’m going to get a glass of tea.”

If it involves getting something, she’s all about it, assuming her mood is amenable. “I got it.”

When she doesn’t want to share, the answer, if not the tone is the same. “I got it.”

When she’s really pissy, she has a mantra: “I got it, I got it, I got it.”

I’m struggling a bit right now.  I was okay with the side effects of prednisone for a couple of weeks. They were annoying–mostly eating and irritability–but I could deal with them.

It was worth the price for a miracle.  Two days on steroids–that’s how long it took for me to go from literally couch bound, dragging my ass around on crutches and rolling chairs, unable to do things like hold a toothbrush or hold a fork to being able to walk and brush my own hair.

Four and I had no limp.

And I am grateful. I really, really, really am. I can make it to (and through!) work.  I can do housework. I can play with my dog. I can visit friends.

Only I’ve had to hold back on the visiting friends thing.

What were minor irritations, building and combining like part of a bomb I’m too afraid to Google,  they’re now like mustard gas: explosive (I think? I don’t know much about mustard gas, but it sounded good), never really expelling itself, never running dry.

I feel lethally poisonous.

I’m sure there’s some psychological term for it that is just beyond my ken: short term memory, how things swim into our consciousness, into the nearness of attention and then swim out without their absence being noted except for when they become present again.

Like my rambling, for example.

It’s easy to forget about inflammation the loss of daily activities when you’re not inflamed and are able to participate in daily activities.  It’s easy to focus on the constant hunger and the brimming anger: they’re right there, right in front of my eyes.

Not so easy to forget when the inflammation comes back, when suddenly I’m on crutches again AND I’m dealing with the rage.

I feel like I’m in another country: out of my element, unsure of how to navigate or to attain states (read: less angry) that had become so basic.

And there is absolutely no point to this other than to say: “I got this.”

Doesn’t quite feel like it. Don’t know when it will feel like it.

But I got this.

Cause that’s just how I roll.


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