I was testing him, I was. I watched him through narrowed eyes, a snarky smirk on my face, as he flipped through Jacob’s chart, scanning through five years worth of notes and diagnoses. Don’t you dare, I thought. The tension was palpable as he searched for just the right words. Neither did he want to sound condescending nor accusatory, I am certain, but his brazen flippancy put me on the defensive.

Jacob had been running a fever and complained of a sore throat the entire weekend. On Monday morning, he woke with a brutal cough. And seeing as how Bridget had massive amounts of green goo crusting both eyes closed, a visit to the pediatrician was eminent.

But we couldn’t see our regular physician, the woman I *love,* the doctor who’s doctored my children from the very beginning. My heart sank as the receptionist told me we’d be seeing Him, instead.

I am almost certain it’s not just my kids who, upon confinement in a cell-sized room to wait for minutes on end, become a little monkey-ish. Jacob’s antsiness at the doctor’s office intensifies ten-fold until he is literally hanging from the windows and I am left on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

The nurses know us well.

As does the staff.

I can feel their eyes on us as we walk down the hall. I sense their whispers and sniggers of disbelief at my hyperactive brood.

This man doctor, whom we saw for all of ten minutes, has the bedside manner of an electric eel. His wife, also a pediatrician within the same practice, is just as lovely as can be. They have three children themselves, and I often wonder how they behave at home. She’s the Maria to his Captain Von Trapp. She leads the children in song and dance while he marches them about and summons them with a whistle. At least that’s how I imagine it.

The end of the visit came about, and I felt anxious to leave.

But that’s when he began thumbing through the chart.

Jacob, will you be in kindergarten this year?

My son, who was rolling on the ground at that point and making guttural noises, ignored him.

He’ll be in school, I offer.

And what school will he go to?

It’s Hannah who answered next, excited to be the one who will get to help Jacob on and off the bus and guide him safely to his classroom. I think, why the heck do you want to know which school he will be going to?

Did he have any preschool experience? he wonders aloud.

Yes, I say curtly.

Well . . .

And this is where I leave him hanging. Go on and say it, you ass. Say what you’re thinking.

I just think . . . I mean . . . I think that once he gets in school, you may want to bring him here and let his regular physician evaluate how he is doing.There’s the Golden Nugget! If I were a cruel woman, I would have asked him what, exactly, did he mean.Look, I said, we’ve already seen the psychologist once before, and we happen to have another appointment with her on Thursday afternoon. And Jacob’s doctor has been watching him for years and helping us cope with and understand his problems. She’s been wonderful. Jacob takes medication, as needed. And while he is out of school for the summer, I see no reason why I need to continue to give him his pill.

Ah, very well then.

*********************

I’m often at a loss when explaining Jacob to others. I am keenly aware of their reactions to him; I notice the smallest things, such as the slight recoil if Jacob gets too close and starts to touch hands and arms, the perplexed looks as they wonder, what the hell is wrong with this kid?

I feel like he should wear a shirt that reads: I have ADD and I may have Asperger’s, and I’m still being tested. And I know I am loud and obnoxious and I don’t understand personal space. And I may hug you or kiss you or lick you without warning, so try not to be too freaked out. That’s my normal. But I’m not a bad boy. I don’t piss you off intentionally.

*********************

There are days when I am just so tired, so tired of trying to parent a child I don’t understand. He angers me, and yet I love him so. He pushes me to the very edge, that child, with a maniacal look in his eye and an exuberance that drives one insane. Yet I can’t get enough of him.

He’s my son, and I love him with such a fierce loyalty that only a mother can understand. I have dreams of sucker-punching the woman next door for badmouthing Jacob when he was younger. And it feels good to slap her, to yank her f***ing braid.

But it’s just a dream. And I am not a violent person in real life.

*********************

I’ve slipped before, in moments of anger. I’ve yelled, you make me so mad! I don’t want to be near you! And the way he looks at me wants to make me claw out my eyes.

And moments later we are hugging and kissing each other, and he’s telling me what a wonderful mommy I am.

But I hate myself, nevertheless.

*********************

I never thought that being a parent would be so difficult. I was disillusioned before my kids came along, and I had hardly a care in the world when Hannah was born. She was easy, a piece of cake.

But Jacob. He rips my heart out, throws it on the ground, stomps on it. He’s nearly six, and yet there are times when I swear he has the emotional maturity of a three year old. I have the equivalent of two toddlers in the house: Jacob cries and throws the tantrums; Bridget makes the messes. Together, they are a force to be reckoned with. And they are kicking my butt.

Too many sleepless nights.

Too much to worry about.

Not enough time to get everything done.

Is this what parenting it? Is this what I committed myself to?

They give you all the love in the world.

And all the heartache, too.