Hashem, there are nine whole unstructured hours left until Havdalah! I cried inwardly. How many more times can I swing this, calmly?
Someone take me away, I mentally pleaded. Anywhere. Just away.
It was Shabbos, and for now, Dr. Blakely had told us to skip Ritalin on weekends.
Not that Ritalin-days were so hunky-dory; while things had started off with a bang, Daniel and I quickly realized there was no “happily ever after.” Shira was doing far better in school, but some days, her 4 p.m. rebounds would last all evening. “If I so much as see that child again before 6:30 a.m. tomorrow, I will need a sedative,” I shakily informed Daniel one night after a particularly harrowing dinner.
Today I was experiencing near-identical feelings — except it was only 10 a.m. Daniel had gone to k’vasikin at six; he usually stayed in shul until eleven earliest, for the one solid learning seder he managed all week. I dragged myself out of bed at seven to supervise breakfast, only to earn the privilege of hearing Shira unload a mouthful of nastiness on her sisters. (Their crime? Daring to pour themselves Cocoa Puffs before her.)
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