Waking Up Lumpy

Wake up grumpy tired much older than yesterday. Day fifty-seven, an irrationally not nice non-round number, since defiantly challenging daughter, with the contextual right-brain unhealthy intelligence of a sociopathic alligator, last came home from school or anywhere without me. Remembering her school's response when I suggested her six-hours-per-day aide five days per week not be switched out every week or two. She doesn't do well with transitions including interpersonal change, lack of power to control a significant Other's time to stay and go. While aware this is an issue, their larger concern was burn-out. Aides couldn't tolerate the intensity of her hostility and constant need need need for attention, for food, for distraction, for action, for... Wondering how the best of her school supporters would feel after 228 consecutive six-hour shifts Without any supervisor capable of reassuring me or him or her or them or us of how many more to go without adequate social distancing within our lumpy quarantine space. No possible reassurance or warning we're just getting started, about to end, over the hump, or not so much, actually. Perfect. Definite only about feeling humped out and jumped in lack of ease, sucked out potential for unguarded rest. Feeling sorry for myself, yes, but also for her, and for all of us who have taken risks to give long-term care where receiving care in response is not a reasonable or compassionate expectation of hope-filled ways, faithful truths, loving lives Quietly waking up grumpy in unsolidarity unsolitary confinement.