I remember the day I met my friend, Sharon.* Bob had turned four the month prior, and I was--for the third time since then--preschool shopping. Sharon was the owner/director of a small, private Montessori preschool (which I fell in love with almost immediately). She was confident, secure, and highly knowledgeable when it came to children. She had two of her own, in fact, and they were honor roll students and star athletes. In other words, she was everything I felt I wasn't. And she intimidated the Hell out of me.

Monday morning, my phone rang. I recognized the number as Bob's school. With a groan, I tapped the "ignore" button on my phone and waited for them to leave a message, hoping it was just the cafeteria manager letting me know (for the 98th time) Bob's lunch account is in the red. No such luck.

It's hard enough trying to decipher the behavioral symptoms in children who have psychiatric illness. Trying to determine the root cause of physical complaints where no obvious cause exists is next to impossible.

Here we go again--another school year, and with it, another round of Laying Down the Law. I do it every September--advise Bob (my son, who has bipolar disorder and ADHD) of what is expected of him in terms of his scholastic efforts. And every year, I ask myself (and everyone else)--Am I expecting too much? Are my standards too high?

So...where do I begin? I've had a lot on my plate lately--strangely enough, not directly Bob-related (although he always has a major role in our family dramas). Oddly enough, I believe my experiences with Bob over the past 9+ years have helped me in weathering the storms.

It would seem like I've fallen into a hole recently. I haven't disappeared entirely, but nothing I've tried to write lately has made much sense, if any. I think I need a vacation. Bob is doing well; however, when your house feels like a demilitarized zone 90% of the time, there are bound to be some casualties. Unfortunately, in our case, it appears the first casualty is our marriage. So please bear with me as I try to hold it together, figure it out, and try to make sense of the chaos. I'll be back next week. Thanks.

Tomorrow, my children will both go back to school. (Excuse me while I do a little dance and high-five myself for having lived through--and allowed them to live through--this very long summer.) The school supplies are ready, the new clothes are in the washing machine as we speak--all in anticipation of a new school year. "Back to School" night was Monday, and we've already met Bob's fourth-grade teacher and know who his classmates are. We are completely prepared. Or are we?

My child has a mental illness. He is not going through a phase! As a parent of a child with a mental illness, nothing irritates me more than the well-meaning (or not-so-well-meaning) person who insists on telling me, "oh, I'm sure Bob is just fine." Or any variant thereon, such as "it's just a phase", "he'll grow out of it", "they all do stuff like that", etc. Believe me, I wish you were right. But your comments don't make me feel any better about the situation. If anything, they make me feel worse.

It's been pretty quiet at my house this week. Bob left for a week at his father's last Friday morning, and was scheduled to return last night. But my husband has some friends visiting from out of town tonight--along with their two young children--so I asked Bob's father if Bob could stay with him until Saturday morning. The guilty truth? I'm not ready for him to come home yet. And I'm not even sure he wants to.

Many parents of children who take psychiatric medications often face resistance from the child. In this mental health video post, I question when--and if--parents should allow their child to have input into their mental health treatment.