The Mama's Lament

I am still damnably tired. It's Thursday, for heaven's sake, and I am still TIRED! I think I'm getting old. This sucks.
I went to Washington with the 8th grade last week, Tues - Fri. Last year, I loved the trip. We had a busload of fagioles (dipsticks) but we made it work and we had a wonderful time. This year, I was on a bus with different teachers, and that went better than I thought it would. We had the Boss, who organized the whole trip, but relaxed as soon as he got on the bus, my Roomie, who was awesome, and Miss Cruise Director who kept getting on the bus microphone to catch up on all the 8th grade gossip, hookups and breakups. We had a lot of fun the first two days, even with the Midnight Runner who got caught traipsing around the hotel barefoot in her pjs (and we couldn't send her home because her mother is bipolar and her father is a schizoid unmedicated artist). Anyway, Midnight Runner got transferred temporarily to our bus and got summarily velcroed to my right leg for the day, with the Asst Principal's instructions "just make her miserable today." Lovely. You can imagine how long that lasted for me. We spent the day at Arlington and the Capitol and the Archives (lunch at Air and Space which was McDonald's and Rolaids). We got back to the hotel an hour before we had to leave for the dinner cruise, and the kids were berserk. The girls were just in the halls loudly comparing clothes and skipping between rooms. The boys were doing dumbass things upstairs (like ramming skulls into doors). Unfortunately, hotel security got called. Not good. The dinner cruise was fun, got lots of adorable party pics of the kids. Decided the flash on the Nikon needs a boost, though. Thursday was the day the shit literally hit the fan. I got grabbed in the hallway by a couple of girls saying "Mrs. B, O. doesn't feel good." O. had been barfing all night, and hadn't gone out after the first volley or sent anyone out to tell the all-night security guard on our floor. She looked awful. Another one barfed in the hallway outside the breakfast room, and the third one just came down and shook like she'd been in a freezer all night. The AP was hemming and hawing on what to do. Good GRIEF. Put sick kids in front of me, and what's a Mama to do? I stayed at the hotel and took care of sick kids all day. We had barfing, diarrhea, fever, chills, panicky phone calls from faraway mothers, and by 12:30 I was telling the tour management guys in the hotel that I was either going to be making a trip to a hospital or walk-in place. What I didn't know was that they have a contract with a group of ER docs at George Washington University hospital, and they MAKE HOUSE CALLS. Right to the hotel. And they bring all the necessary shit with them. The doc who came was young, single and cute, so Miss Cruise Director and Roomie were wishing later that they had been the ones to stay with the sickies! O. got two bags of IV fluid in her collapsed veins, and everyone got imodium and prescription anti-nausea. The doc said O had gastroenteritis complicated by severe dehydration, and the others were either strictly dehydrated or had mild stomach bugs complicated by the dehydration. They brought me another victim after the play that evening, same shit, different kid. I spent $60 on Gatorade at the hotel gift shop. I had several more with milder symptoms later in the evening, but they were all just somewhat dehydrated and exhausted (and freaked out that they didn't feel well given the rumors flying around the grapevine) more than anything else. I gave them my cell number in case they got worse in the night (and we got some calls). Every time I was on my way back to the room that night the guard would say, what's up, and I'd say "another one just needs her mama to pet her on the head, calm her down and tell her it'll be better if she goes to sleep!" The guard that night told me she had four kids, so she knew just what I was talking about. Just exactly what I do with Sadie when she gets up in the middle of the night with a bad dream or a fall out of bed -- you sit, smooth her hair, talk soft to her and tell her she's just fine, everything's all right, she just needs to close eyes and go on to sleep. Not an entertaining evening by a long shot. Between that and my own personal freakout, I didn't sleep hardly at all that night. That was the result of a grab on the part of one adult who had no idea what reaction that would elicit from me. Don't ever grab my wrist and refuse to let go. I ended up twisting my arm out of his grasp without hollering or causing the scene I both desperately wanted to and also desperately wanted to avoid since I was in a public hotel hallway full of colleagues and students. I needed that emotional baggage resurfacing at that point like I needed a goddamn five-inch hole in my skull. I'm still having issues with control now. I hate finding myself checking for exits when I walk into rooms or discovering that I have once again placed myself where I can see all doors with my back to the wall. I hate feeling like I have to put physical barriers (tables, desks, counters) between me and certain people in the building so they cannot come close to me. I have one friend in the building who knows what this is all about, and I know there is one room where I can go if I absolutely have to, and no questions will be asked as to why I am there or whether it is okay if anyone comes near me. BUT I DON'T WANT TO. I have worked for a lot of years to find happiness in my life, and to feel safe and in control. I hate this irrational terror. I hate having the bottom of my gut drop out when I pull into my usual parking space. I hate finding myself grinding my nails into my left palm -- when I don't realize I've started doing that again. I know damned good and well that nobody in my building would ever hurt me. But I haven't got this back into its cage and locked the door yet. I'm working on it, though. That sumbitch doesn't get to win this war. Can't tell Hubby. He knows the long, ugly version of the past, and we've had a few events in our time together where someone has grabbed me or otherwise set me off. He has a long fuse, but at the end of that fuse are two hefty fists and a lot of bottled-up anger that he doesn't have a problem turning loose on assholes. It won't matter that it was unintentional -- it will only matter that I no longer feel safe and I was grabbed. Period. And I don't want to bail him out of jail.