May Madness

I know for most educators, the month of May is this kind of frantic push to make it to some sort of invisible goal line. There is a pretense that learning must continue to the very last day, even if the kids are done. Somehow there is time for one more story, one more math module. There is mother’s day gifts to be crafted and field day to prepare for, and awards to fill out and grades to get ready. The room needs to be cleaned and everything needs to be organized and ready for the fall. And. And. And.

Growing up in Canon City, Colorado, May is always heralded in by Blossom. Blossom is the affectionate term we call the weekend long celebration of the long ago fruit orchards that once filled our valley. Even though our industry is prisons now, and not plums and peaches, traditions die hard. The carnival pulls into town, marching bands fill the streets, and artists pop open their awnings hoping that this is the year tourists spend big. It is the weekend that has always signaled the end of the school year and promise of the summer ahead.

May for me has become this time of excitement and fear. I am ready to finish up the school year and ride my bike and nap in the sun and recharge, but summer always seems to bring my son’s schizophrenia into a full throttle frenzy. I exchange one crazy for another. I have some theories about why summers are so difficult, but nothing hard and fast to prevent the crazy train from rolling in.

The signs have been there for the last week or so. I watched him having a full blown conversation with a shovel. Then he accused me of making up reasons to yell at him, even though I wasn’t even in the house at the time and then he got lost at the grocery store and called me in a panic.

I honestly wondered for a half a second what it would be like to join the carnival. It is in town right now. I love the neon lights and the geometry of the Ferris wheel and the magic way the rides and games unfold and pop out. It would be interesting to travel for a season to small towns and big cities and set up and take down. I’d love to take photos of cotton candy faces and jot down my thoughts every night. It seems like it could be a great story.

Shayne was screaming obscenities while he was mowing the lawn. I went outside and told him he needed to stop and get it together. I don’t really care what the neighbors think, but don’t need one of them calling the cops. When he came inside, I asked him why he isn’t taking his medicine. Not that there is a good answer to that. It’s more of a formality in this dance we do. I try to make sense out of something that makes no sense. He tries to convince me there is a legit reason when there isn’t. Then we both stare at the bottle of pills that should be empty and isn’t. He takes one out and puts it in his mouth, swallows, then opens his mouth to show me that he has taken it.

Even though I can’t hear the voices that my son does, sometimes I feel controlled by them too. I don’t know why I’m thinking about running away with the carnival, I’m living on a roller coaster everyday. I’d like to get off; I just don’t know how. But I took a little break and walked to the park and listened to the music. Some of my friends were there and I danced a little, and laughed. And just breathed. That’s when I realized, that’s all I really need to do anyway. Just breathe.