Monkey Boy is hiding things. Again. My stomach hurts.
A few years ago, he was at a daycare that was not a particularly good fit. He was totally stressed out, but didn’t know how to communicate that to us. He started hiding things: his shoes, toys, cars, etc. We joked he spent so much time with the dogs, he was just burying his “bones.” We thought it as just a phase. When it became clear the situation at his daycare was totally unworkable, we moved him. He stopped hiding things.
I didn’t really connect the two until last week. We got a box in the mail with about a dozen of his cars. They were from our landlords. Seems when they started unpacking their son’s stuff, they found our son’s cars stashed away. Then it hit me: His folder from school is missing. He can’t find some other toys. Crap! He’s hiding stuff again. I thought he outgrew that. The last time he did that was when…. CRAP!
I Googled this, as I do all ailments, so I could diagnose what this means. All I found was how to hide sex toys from your kids (um, thanks?) and something about ferrets as pets. (Oddly, it did not say he has cancer, which every single symptom I’ve ever looked up online previously made that assumption first.)
So I’ve made my own diagnosis: my son is stressed out. Completely. Totally. Beyond his threshold. So are we. He’s told us several times he wants to go home. We tell him we do too, but we can’t yet.
I hate that tree. I’m pissed at our mortgage and insurance companies. I’m angry about the time we lost because our first builder turned out to be a flake. I cannot stand that there is NOTHING I can do about this.
Since all this has been going on, I’ve seen quite a bit of my GI doc, who unintentionally became another therapist. On my last visit, he told me my good news is my bad news. The good news is, I’m no sicker than I have ever been. The bad news is, stress feeds my illness, and I’ve got that in spades. Until my house is fixed, my stomach is going to hurt. Until his house is fixed, Monkey Boy is going to stash his stuff.
My son is hiding things. Again. My stomach hurts.