One more about the drugs.

I have been completely Effexor-free for, oh, a little over a week now. My emotions are back to normal; I believe that my term as Crazy Crying Lady has ended. This would be good news were it not for the fact that I happen to be dying. I think there was a little heroin mixed in with the Effexor and no one told me. I’ve been enjoying a fascinating variety of physical sensations. Hot! Cold! Hot and cold at the same time! Queasy! Starving! Racked with stomach pain! Nauseated and starving and trembling like a damp Chihuahua! Today has been spent curled up in various locations around the apartment. Next to Henry’s train set. Abutting the Galaxy of Star Wars Guys. And, of course, on the couch.

I’m so tired that I fell asleep in mid-sentence while conversing with Henry, who did not appreciate this. He has told me, in no uncertain terms, that he is not pleased with my performance lately. The mother of yore, who would take him to the playground and/or build Jedi starfighters out of play dough, has been replaced by weird shaky mom who lifts her head from the pillow to ask him if he wouldn’t mind watching a little more TV. The answer to that question, incidentally, is “Normally I would relish the opportunity to watch television until my brain falls out through my slack mouth, but today I would rather force you to rise from your prone position and make you twirl around with me, so start twirling, queasy lady.”

On the other hand, Henry basically potty-trained himself last week. I brought up the topic, and he put his hand on my arm and all but said, “Why don’t you let me take care of that.” I wasn’t sure if I needed to provide a reward system, some stickers or M&Ms or maybe some Effexor capsules, but as it turned out, for Henry the reward was in the doing. All I had to do was rush to the toilet whenever he had done his thing and provide the appropriate accolades. Then Henry flushed and I returned to my lovely couch.

I’d like to feel better soon, but on the other hand if I keep this up he’s going to teach himself how to dress himself. And cook. And read. And start a blog called “My Deadbeat Mother.”