The. Most. Over. Whelming. Day. Ever.
Punkin and I are cat-sitting for some friends of ours all week. This meant that I had to wake him up at 6:15 in order to leave by 6:25 in order to get to the cats by 6:30 in order to leave the cats by 6:40 in order to drop off punkin at school at 7:00 in order to get to work by 7:15. In case you are wondering, Punkin was petrified of the cats at first. He wouldn't even walk into the apartment. I had to carry him, and he was still as stiff as a board. After a while, though, when he realized that the cats couldn't care less about him, he loosened up and stood behind them as they ate, silent, except for the rythmic, "Cat. Moooww."
After work, we stopped by the gas station to pick up a snack before going to WIC (Women Infants and Children). Now, going to WIC is always an adventure. There is always a new girl, and there is always a crabby lady. The crabby lady hates her job. She definitely does not appreciate my hyperactive son, and she doesn't really seem to care for any of the people she serves. She's the first with whom I have the pleasure of interacting. "Proof of address? Medical card? Phone number? Gross monthly income?" Then it's the nurse who weighs and measures and tests iron levels. And she always expects Punkin to know what she means when she says, "Stand still," not to mention she expects him to actually do it. Every time I go I have to tell her that he has Fragile X Syndrome. Every time she acts like she knows what it is, but just can't remember. Every time I tell her, all she hears is "autism." Then she gives him a band-aid even though I tell her he won't keep it on, and we are on to my personal favorite--the dietician. Now, the dieticians I have known at WIC are a special breed of people. First of all, they expect me to be able to recount everything I feed my son in a week. Secondly, they think kids like refried and dried beans. Third, they are quiet people. My son is not a quiet person, he will not touch a bean, and no, I don't recall how many ounces of juice I put in his cup. And like the nurse, she can't find in her chart (even though she wrote it last time) that he has Fragile X. But once I explain that the reason he is chucking a schoolbus across her office is because he is overly stimulated, she seems to calm down. This all took 60 long minutes.
After that delightful experience, we stopped by and fed the cats again, bought gas, drove through the ATM, and went to the grocery store. By the time we left the grocery store, he was crying, pushing the cart (and very peeved that I was helping him), and shoeless. I was sweating, my grandma undies were probably sticking up out of my skirt, and I was carrying a box of chinese food.
And this is where we get to learning why I am a genius. My D-LISH chinese food came with a fortune cookie, which read: Genius is merely patience. I found this amusing at first given the overwhelming afternoon and the fact that Punkin refused to even touch the eggroll, rice, or chicken. "Mo fuit. Peas." Then I remembered something the dietician at WIC said, "You have the patience of Job." (A little bit odd, admittedly, but meant very sincerely and with the most kindess.) And we all know Job had a LOT of patience. So, if I have patience like Job, and genius is merely patience, then I am a super-GENIUS!