500 Acres and No Place to Hide

by Susan McCorkindale

  He considers this for a few seconds. “But she’s kind of already written it, hasn’t she?”

  The kid doesn’t miss a trick. “Yeah, she kinda has.” I steal a quick look at my son. In his jet-black Jack Bauer T-shirt and just-this-side-of-acceptable blue jeans that I shouldn’t have let him wear but couldn’t resist because he makes them look good, his long, dark hair whipping in the wind, he looks like a fourth Jonas Brother, a fifth Beatle, or the next Bon Jovi. Basically, some teenybopping heartthrob I couldn’t possibly have given birth to. “Nice catch.”

  “I wish you had a job like that.”

  “A job like what? As a singer?” I laughed.

  He nodded.

  “You have to be able to sing, Cuy, to get a job as a singer.”

  “Well, you got a job teaching gym and you don’t even know how to play flag football.”

  Guess I wasn’t asking for his help with the dodgeball business. “Well, there are some things you can learn on the job, as they say. But other things you really have to have a talent for.”

  “Well, I know your talent then.”

  Of course he did. I’m a writer. And sometimes when he reads something I wrote, he laughs. So I’m a funny writer. That’s my talent.

  “You know how to find good shrinks.”

  I nearly missed the turn into the school parking lot.

  “My talent is finding good shrinks?” Where the hell did that come from?

  “You found Dr. Mann,” he replied, simultaneously popping his seat belt and slipping into his backpack as I screeched into a spot. “Whoa, Mom. Slow down.”

  I grabbed his knee before he could do a Dukes of Hazzard and hop out of the car. “Cuy, are you kidding?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t always like talking to her’cause, like, just sometimes I don’t feel like talking. But you found her. And she made me feel better. So that’s a talent, right?”

  He was serious. I was speechless. But not for long.

  “I found her ’cause I love you. Not because I have a thing for finding therapists.” He laughed. For a ten-year-old my son has a terrific sense of humor. “Seriously, Cuy, I would have gone to the moon and back to make you feel better.”

  “Whatever.” He leaned toward me with his head bent, the universal signal for “yes, you may kiss me good-bye, but only on the head, and only here, in the car, where no one can see you,” then opened the door and dashed up the steps ahead of me.

  God forbid he should be seen with the shrink finder.

  It wasn’t that long ago that I’d sat talking with Dr. Mann (aka “the good shrink”), in her happy, comfy office with the Fisher Price knights and the big gray castle that Cuy finds so comforting during his sessions, about the differences between clonidine, Seroquel, and Abilify, and which would work fastest to stop my burgeoning cattle farmer from gnawing the insides of his mouth into chopped meat.

  The mouth-chewing business was the latest in self-mutilating techniques my younger son had been employing to ease his ever-increasing anxiety and anger. He denied doing it, of course, but when your kid walks around looking like a blowfish with his cheeks puffed out to relieve the pain, there are only two conclusions you can draw: one, he’s been biting himself, or two, he’s morphing into the aforementioned sea creature.

  Since I didn’t see gills, I went with the mouth-destruction diagnosis.

  When he first began displaying the anxiety I’m certain he was born with, because even in utero Cuy bucked around the clock like the bull calves he so lovingly cares for, he simply scratched at his arms and legs. And then his face. And neck. And chest. And knees. And tush. It’s not an exaggeration to say that at one point, he was so streaked with scratches, he looked striped.

  We went through dozens of shirts, finally settling on long-sleeved black and midnight blue polos because they hid the bloodstains best, changed laundry detergent seven times in a fruitless quest to find one that actually fulfilled its claim to soften clothes,129 and discovered that three-pairs-for-a-dollar ankle-length sweat socks do a darn good job of absorbing blood before it drips into seventy-five-dollar Nikes.

  We also endured a lot of stares from folks who looked as if they were ready to report us to Family Services. And I’m really not complaining; those people have their place. But it’s an awful, sickening feeling when you realize the grandmotherly type making small talk with your kid in the local Sears is really trying to determine whether you’re hurting him, when you’re desperate to figure out how to help him.

  Prescription eczema creams? We tried several and finally came to the conclusion that a cheapie tube of Aquaphor, applied head to toe atop a nice, thick coating of equally cheap Burt’s Bees Body Butter, worked as well if not better. Plus it didn’t cost us the equivalent of a mortgage payment every month.

  For a few wonderful weeks, Cuy went to bed each night slick as a used-car salesman, and we all slept like babies. And then one day I awoke to the sound of crying coming from the bathroom. I raced in and found him sitting on the floor, his tear-streaked face filled with pain, trying to apply Neosporin and Band-Aids to two bloody thumbs. The anxiety had returned full throttle and his response was to rip apart his nail beds.

  Enter the kiddie shrink and Prozac and endless applications of SolarOil, Solar Butter, aloe, and vitamin E. Enter gauze pads and adhesive tape, Vaseline and white gloves, and the kind of bribery never before seen this side of a political campaign.

  “Leave the bandages alone and you can have Conflict: Vietnam Four Thousand Two Hundred and Twelve for the PlayStation.”130 No response. It’s late Saturday afternoon. I’ve done my best to distract him all day. We’ve read. Played Aggravation and Monopoly and made chocolate-chip muffins. We’ve watched Elf. Twice. We’ve eaten Drumstick ice cream and frozen cookie dough directly out of the container. We’ve done almost anything he wanted and everything I could think of. But it’s akin to trying to ignore an abscessed tooth. You can take it for only so long before you flip.

  He’s staring at his thumbs. They’re covered in cream, wrapped in gauze, and taped from wrist to tip in a desperate effort to help them heal. His need to get to them, tear at them with his teeth, scissors, the corner of his sea-foam green iPod is palpable. I’ve got thirty seconds, a minute tops, before his anxiety and the itch of his recovering cuticles crests at the same time. I do the only thing I can think of: I sweeten the deal.

  “And the PSP. You can have it for the PSP, too. Okay?”

  He snaps his head around horror-film fast and hisses, “They don’t make it for the PSP. And besides,” he adds, sticking his tiny, mummified fingers in my face, “I certainly can’t play like this!”

  Clearly the powers of Prozac never did manifest for my young man.

  Unlike some people,131 I’m a big fan of today’s pharmaceutical companies132 and the myriad medications that have given millions back their lives. To the gang at Forest Laboratories, Bristol-Myers Squibb, and my personal favorite, GlaxoSmithKline,133 thank you from the depths of my much less frequently depressed heart.

  When I’m not busy blaming myself for my son’s anxiety disorder, which I do nearly every day, much to the dismay of my own therapist, I’m thanking God for having given him to me. I’m lucky to have him, and I think, in a weird, cosmic way, he’s lucky to have me, too. At least I understand what he’s going through, and I know what to do to help.

  By the time Cuy’s anxiety appeared, I was the dean of antidepressants and president of the talk-therapy fan club. I knew what to look and listen for in myself and others.

  And when I heard and saw the signs in my son, it broke my heart.

  But you know what’s funny? After all those years of second-guessing myself when he was a baby, after all those days and nights of his inconsolable crying and fussing and my not knowing what the hell to do because the “how to” pamphlet they promised me did not pass with the placenta, after all those hours of asking God why I didn’t get the mom gene that the women in the park and at the pool and in the playgroup
s and in the parenting magazines obviously got in spades, because they were so cool and confident in caring for their kids when I was about as calm as a crack addict in caring for mine, I finally, totally trusted myself to make the right calls.

  As he mentioned, Cuy doesn’t particularly like the talking part of the process. Having the castle and knights to play with makes it less uncomfortable, but still, he’s far from a fan. Mainly it’s because he’s shy. But it’s also because he’s like most people who suffer bouts of anxiety and depression: He’s afraid he’ll find out he’s a freak, the only one in the world to ever feel the way he does. And he thinks if he stuffs the sadness and the agitation that run like a freight train through his body, it will go away.

  Unfortunately and fortunately for him, I know it doesn’t work that way.

  My job is to get him to talk, and, as I’ve already confessed, I’m not beyond bribery to do so. In fact, Cuy and I have had some of our best conversations on our way to Wal-Mart for some video game I promised if he’d just ’fess up to his feelings. So what if it costs me twenty-five or thirty bucks?134 It’s a small price to pay to convince my kid that the monster under the bed will go away only if you pull him out, hold him up to the light, and look him right in the eye. Telling yourself he’s wearing diapers doesn’t hurt either.

  Yes, my son is mature. But it’s been my experience that potty humor has its place. And it’s waaaaay up there on the depression-tool totem pole.

  At this point Cuy’s thumbnails are so pitted he can use them as soup spoons. But that’s okay. He no longer picks, chews, rubs, or stabs at them. Why? Because he no longer wants to. His cuticles have healed, and even though they’re as thick as Fredo Corleone’s skull, he has no problem capturing Viet Cong in Combat: Vietnam Four Thousand Two Hundred and Twelve, or playing any other video game, for that matter.

  He’s stopped tearing at his skin, too, and these days the only time he scratches is when he picks up poison ivy from racing around the fields on his ATV, or has a mosquito bite.

  Speaking of biting, we went with the Abilify. It takes a good-size chunk out of our checking account each month (without prescription coverage, thirty five-milligram tablets cost just under four hundred and fifty dollars; with coverage, which we’re lucky enough to have, it’s a “measly” one hundred and thirty-four), but it stopped his mouth chewing immediately.

  In addition, his teeth grinding, nightmares, and panic attacks are things of the past. My younger son wakes up in a good mood, happily feeds his baby bulls their bottles, and occasionally even smiles when I take him to school.

  Which is exactly what he was doing right this second: standing by the front door, smiling, and, could it be, waiting for the shrink finder?

  “What’s up?” I asked. “Why didn’t you go in?”

  “I was just wondering what we’re doing later.”

  “Maybe dodgeball.”

  He rolled his eyes and tugged on the straps of his backpack. “Do you even know how to play dodgeball?”

  “No. But I bet you do.”

  “So that’s my talent?” he asked, feigning indignation. “Teaching you how to teach PE?”

  “Cuy, you have a million talents. You know all kinds of stuff about history. You’re a great free safety. You’re—”

  “Good at deciphering love songs,” he cut me off sweetly. He was beaming. Those little blue pills were worth every penny.

  “Yes, you’re good at deciphering love songs. And you’re going to be really good at helping me again today, right?”

  He shook his head. “You know, Mom,” he said, pulling the door open and stepping aside so I could enter, “you’re lucky to have me.”

  My sentiments exactly, sweetheart.

  It’s Father’s Day on the Farm: Do You Know Where the Duct Tape Is?

  TO: Friends and family

  FR: Suzy@stuckinthesticks.com

  Date: Sunday, 12:09 p.m.

  Subject:The wife from hell

  That’s me, the wife from hell.

  Why?

  Because it’s Father’s Day, and instead of letting my man sleep till noon, which he totally deserves, as he’s up early every day tending to cattle, chickens, broken fence boards, aggressive goats, and all manner of farm matters, I awakened him at four in the morning.

  Why?

  Because I got up to work, made the mistake of checking my e-mail, and discovered one of my columns running on NBC-Washington. com. And then I needed someone to celebrate with. And it couldn’t be just anyone. It had to be my better half.The one who puts up with my myriad neuroses, my nonstop neediness, and my spectacular lack of self-esteem.

  “What if I’m never funny again? I mean, that piece? That piece could be the last piece that makes anybody laugh. Seriously. I’m committing suicide.”

  “Does the Mustang make my butt look big? Be honest. I’ve got no business being in a car that hot, old crone that I’ve become. Right?”

  “What about boobs? You think I should get boobs? Maybe just one boob, on the right, to even ’em out. You’d like that, yes?”

  “Oh, my God. Only I could f*!#k up frozen fish sticks. Give’em to the dogs; I’ll make mac and cheese. Oh, my God. The milk’s bad.What kind of mother lets the milk go bad?”

  Yeah, I’m a delight to live with, and even more wonderful to be awakened by before sunrise. But for some reason, he puts up with me. It’s been more than twenty years, and I still don’t know why. And you know what’s really crazy? Even in the wee dark hours, he’s pretty happy to see me.Yup. His exact words were, “Great, Suz. Proud of you. Now get the hell out of my face before I duct-tape your mouth. It’s Father’s Day, dammit.”

  That’s right, it’s Father’s Day. So, hon, your hammock’s out, your Budweiser’s on ice, and nobody’s going to bother you all day.

  Nobody but the wife from hell, that is. But you’re good with that, right?

  Right?

  Love,

  Susan

  Chapter Twenty-five

  JAMMIN’ WITH THE JONAS BROTHERS

  It’s official: My dear friend and favorite Jazzercise instructor Kim is the world’s best mom. I am the world’s second best.

  Why does Kim beat me for top honors? Because when tickets for the summer’s hottest concert—the Jonas Brothers at Nissan Pavilion, for those of you lucky ducks135 who don’t have the words to “Burnin’ Up” burned into your brain—went on sale, she didn’t hesitate to buy a bunch. Why am I happy to be, quite literally, second banana in this rockin’ produce department? Because when Kim wound up with two extra tickets to the sold-out show, I didn’t stop and think and wait and wonder like I did when they first went on sale. I offered her double on the spot and called it a day.

  Or, to be accurate, I called it a date. With Casey.

  See, both Case and Cuy are learning to play electric guitar, and every afternoon they jack up their amps and jam with the Jonas boys. It’s an interesting sound, rather akin to the noise a cat might make if you put it in a blender. 136 But at least they’re practicing. And I’m certain that at some point they’ll get good, or at least less painful to listen to, and then the dogs will stop whimpering and trying to hide between my legs, and Hemingway will stop charging around the house, palms pressed to his ears, hollering, “Susan, what is that sound?”

  The fact that there were only two tickets wasn’t too troublesome. Why? Because the day of the concert was also the first day of Cuyler’s four-day stay at shooting camp. Hallelujah for the nice folks at 4-H! Wonderful of them to coordinate with the people at the Nissan Pavilion, don’t you think? Yes, at the very moment my little guy would be taking target practice, Casey and I would be taking the opportunity to stock up on Jonas Brothers T-shirts. And CDs. And posters of Kevin, Nick, and Joe in all manner of “aren’t we cool?” and “moody is our middle name” poses, and one of a perky little brunette with a whole Punky Brewster–meets–Debbie Gibson thing going on named Demi Lovato.

  “Who?” I asked my son.

  �
��Their opening act, Mom.”

  “Demi Moore?”

  “Demi Lovato, Mom. From Camp Rock. C’mon, Mom. Keep up.”

  I try to stay current. Really I do. But sometimes I miss the boat. I mean the band. Or at least their opening act.

  In any case, on the morning of the concert, a few crucial details had to be dealt with. First, I needed to decide what we’d bring. A blanket, because, hey, lawn seats are tough on the tush; two pairs of binoculars; and money to feed my eternally hungry escort.

  Note to self: Never again permit perpetual eating machine to “help” shop supermarket snack aisle. A hundred bucks on Tostitos, Cheez-Its, and Chips Ahoy! is a shameful waste of money. Particularly since most of it was consumed before it went in the cart.137

  Then I had to decide what to wear. I threw open my closet and looked at my clothes. The last time I went to a concert was before I had kids. Was my Jackson Browne at the Beacon Theatre belly shirt appropriate? Or maybe my Bob Seger at Madison Square Garden sweatshirt? I could wear both; it might get chilly. Or better yet, something Springsteen. My “No Nukes” tank top would be perfect.

  I reached in and started rifling. Then rifling turned to ransacking. They were here the last time I looked! But when had I last looked? Nineteen eighty-nine? I had the gnawing sense that my cute Jackson Browne top had long ago been demoted to dust-rag duty, a memory so painful I practically need an epidural to endure it, and my Seger and Springsteen stuff had most likely met a similar fate.