The smartest one, he’s in the Gifted class, proud of his geek reputation, knowing how much I appreciate signs of intelligent life in our house, the one who within an hour caused two younger siblings to join his raging-over-nothing fest this morning, was also the first one to finally get a grip and apologize with tears in his eyes. This is unusual.

But I also raged. I stomped my feet, yelled and hollered something to the effect of showing my hillbilly roots, “I’ll be DOGGED if I’m gonna get another tumor from the ugliness pooped out on me around here!”

No, I’m not proud of losing it. I should be the leader, but human I am. It is emotionally difficult to maintain love and support in the face of such resentment. To provide for children who destroy everything, and who spew such loathing of me and all I stand for. I know they don’t hate me; I’m the convenient target for their loathing at the world. It wears on me though; it has aged me and stolen much of my sunny disposition. I fight to maintain my optimism, or what’s left of it after two decades of this boot camp parenting I’ve attempted.

So my smart one, realizing he had inadvertently caused an insurgence of epic proportions, even for our family, took it upon himself to attempt to calm down his siblings. I heard him repeating to them what he’s learned from me, “We’re gonna end up in jail if we don’t learn to respect authority,” bringing one brother in the living room to deliver apologies, knowing that I demand, and expect, accountability.

The lone sister, still hanging on to her negativity, reveling in it actually, not aggravating the brothers as well, she has a tough time discerning the difference between mad and sad. I have her in a more specialized therapy for physical aggression. It’s not a stretch, when getting children from murderous bio parents, to be concerned about excessive hostility and belligerence.

The constant assault on my own nerves and constitution has taken its toll over the years as well. I underwent surgery last fall for a non malignant tumor, I do take care of myself in that I eat right and take vitamins, I drink water not sodas nor alcohol, and I’m underweight if anything, but my nerves are raw, my emotions bruised, and even my sensibilities have been pummeled under the constant stress of imminent explosions.

I’m aware of the likelihood of my own PTSD, that I’ve absorbed so many of their issues that I’ve become different…for want of a better word.

But this is what I do, sometimes I handle it all miraculously, sometimes I totally verbally lose it like I did this morning. Such is life.