The Male Sibling Unit has been inconvenienced AF today, much to his irritation.
*GASP* I asked him to accompany me to the post office to mail a package and then, adding insult to injury, I asked him to help me carry stuff home from the grocery store. This threw his “schedule” off about 10 minutes total (Oh FUCK, there’s a SKIP-BO tournament at STEPS today!!) The needling, angry comments persisted until – in a fit of anger as I watched my last fuck drift off, like a helium-filled balloon into the sky – I LOST MY SHIT.
In the middle of a street. A dead one, thank Christ.
In gravely quiet tones (Clint Eastwood has nothing on me) I took my stance and warned him that if he spoke one more word – just one, or even a fragment of one – I would NOT be replying and furthermore, I would take immediate, consequential action upon arriving home. Go ahead, Punk: make my day.
The Male Sibling Unit blinked, perhaps not understanding me. “Why?” he managed to ask, uncertain as to why I would want to refrain from reacting or replying to his witty repartee and chiding banter and irritating-as-fuck declarations of obstinate fury because oh my fucking god, SKIP-BO STARTS AT 2PM AND IT IS 1:42PM.
I countered his why with “Why should I listen to you say things that just piss me off? Does it make you happy to ignore me when I ask you to stop and does it thrill you to upset me? Hmmm? Does that delight you?” Now I was channeling Jack Nicholson’s Joker and not Dirty Harry.
Something in my tone, or on my face, seemed to actually connect with him, and he replied quietly, and with mild surprise, “No, it doesn’t.”
We resumed our walk and the rest of the trip home was blissfully silent.
And then, like a light switch being flipped, he resumed with the attitude as soon as we closed the door behind us. The walk to the community center takes him about 5 minutes, so getting there on time, or maybe just a minute or two late, wasn’t going to be a problem.
The Male Sibling Unit apparently doesn’t grasp the meaning of “self-sabotage” and so he commenced to do just that with flawless execution. 10s across the board, folks! I asked him to bring his cat’s dish down from his room so I could fill it. I listened, overhead, as he walked into the bathroom at least three times, back into his room, slamming the door, and then, as I stood with the cat food mixed, and ready to go into the bowl, he came down the stairs…..empty-handed. He stood on the landing and asked, with the fakest innocence dripping from his voice that I have ever heard, “Do you need Ragnar’s dish?”
Dirty Harry returned, once again. Or maybe a combination of him and the “Get off my lawn” character Eastwood portrayed with such realism. I was getting tired of this.
“Did I ask you to bring it down?” I menaced, digging my nails into the palm of my hand so as to not slap the piss out of him. If ever there was a moment in which I deserved the Medal of Freedom – since apparently the requirements are much more relaxed now – it was this one. Tiger Woods got one for much, much less.
“Well YEAH. Duh.”
Again, I beseech you: am I not the most worthy of the Medal of Freedom? I ask this because The Male Sibling Unit is still alive; I didn’t punch him in his large schnozz or Gibbs-slap the gray matter out of his bald head. I growled at him, when he returned with the bowl, “Take this to Ragnar and then get the fuck out of my sight.” The Male Sibling Unit stomped back up to his room, shouting, “I’m NOT GOING. I’m STAYING HOME.”
This, right here, is a prime example of what I encounter almost every day with The Male Sibling Unit because of his intellectual impairment. I share with you the funny stuff, the sweet stuff, and most of you think that life with The Male Sibling Unit must be one hilarious conversation or incident after another. It must leave me feeling so blessed.
I do. I am. But days like this are the norm, and days like this, I don’t talk about. Maybe I should. Maybe I do him a great disservice by making it seem as if he is a barrel of laughs and his hysterical antics are a constant source of delight for me. Sure, there are many, but he is, after all, human. He has bad days, too. And he has less ability to cope with them than others do, and so it falls upon me to “manage” those moods, and outbursts, and angry moments when he bites his hand or hits the wall or slams a broom handle into the screen of his television (true fucking story), shattering it. Most of the time, and especially when his schedule deviates just a millimeter off course, The Male Sibling Unit is a 6 year-old trapped in the body of a diabetic, hyperthyroid-encumbered 44 year-old man. It is hard. Hard for me to remain the Zen-like, big sister who has in truth been his mother figure since he was a baby. Hard for him to control the narcissism that is as much a part of him as his eye color.
Maybe I don’t always handle such moments with the patience and grace that I should. Today, certainly, was not my best moment. All I could think about was that if I didn’t get him out of my sight, I might lose my shit again, and wake The Husband up with my Banshee screech. He worked all night; hearing me Channel My Mother would not be the best way to be awakened.
“The FUCK you ARE,” I shouted after The Male Sibling Unit as he stomped up the stairs. “Feed the cat and GO TO STEPS.”
He practically ran out the door, tossing a meek “See ya later” at me as he breezed past.
Glass of wine mid-afternoon? Why, I do think I will.