When I was in college, my roommates and I hosted a P-Funk party that people still talk about. We dressed up and wore wigs. We played records (yes, records) and really got down. But that’s not the kind of funk I’m talking about now. A few months ago, my two teen boys invited some friends over (more teen boys) for a sleepover, and the next morning, as they slept and I walked into the game room to survey the damage (almost as wild as my P-Funk party), I was hit with a wall of funk. Teenage-boy funk. Sweat, dirty socks, and (um, how to put this delicately?) expelled-air kind of funk.

But there’s another kind of funk I’m in now. You know the kind, I’m sure – things are going mostly okay, you’re working, taking care of the kids and the household, but something doesn’t feel right. And in spite of all that’s good in your life, in spite of counting your blessings, it’s still hard. Right – nobody said life was supposed to be easy. But is it supposed to be hard?

No, I tell myself. I’m just in a funk. I’m at a crossroads with my finished-but-still-unpublished book, unfulfilled with my day job, feeling like I’m between treading water and sometimes barely keeping my head above it. So when Neil, who turns 15 next week, told me last night that his case manager at school said to ask me if he’s going to be getting his driver’s permit (what?!), I felt like I’d been hit by a wall of water.

I didn’t know this was coming, although really, I did. I just didn’t know it would be this week. But what shocks me more is that I was just talking about this with my good friend Carrie less than a week ago. (Got Carrie? If not, head on over there immediately. You’ll be glad you did.) I was telling her how I didn’t know how to tell my son that he’s not ready to drive yet, in spite of how much he wants to. I told her how I’ve been putting it off, not sure how to approach it, foolishly thinking I still had some time. And then, something amazing happened, as it usually does when we’re with someone who listens and understands. Out of my mouth tumbled, “Maybe he just needs to hear it from me” or something along those lines. And I knew that I had to have the talk with him soon. I just didn’t get it together quick enough. So, I copped out. Last night, as I had three different dinners cooking at once while he stood there expectantly, I said, “Maybe in a few months.” I just couldn’t do it right then.

Because last night my other son needed me more. Last night Adam was still recuperating from a vaccine reaction. Yes, I said it. I’m going there. He had his 13-year physical two days ago (a couple months late, but oh well), and the nurse spouted off at least four different vaccinations or boosters that he “needed.” We decided to go with one – the meningitis. It was the one that I felt strongest about, so we took it. Then I dropped him back off at school and I went back to work. In less than an hour, Adam told me later, his arm was numb, and he had a headache and abdominal pains. My poor sweet boy didn’t want to disturb me at work, so he suffered through it at school and told me when he got home. He slept badly that night, still experiencing the same problems. He stayed home from school the next day, and by that evening (last night), he was feeling better (although his arm still felt strange).

I went in Adam’s room to talk to him before he went to sleep, as I do every night. I’d had an epiphany, and I wanted to share it with him. My younger son has sensory processing disorder – gustatory, olfactory, tactile, proprioceptive, and vestibular (worse than Neil in all of these areas). And when Adam was a baby, he cried almost constantly – but it didn’t start until he was two months old. That was when he received his first round of what turned out to be no less than 16 vaccinations by the age of 18 months. (By comparison, I’d received 6 vaccinations by the time I was 18 months.)  Adam knows that he was a crier. He’s heard the war stories. But, as I told him last night, now we know why. I think that it took months for his little body to assimilate the vaccines, and by the time he got through one round, it was time for another, and then another. His body was flooded, overwhelmed. And I believe that experience contributed to his sensory processing disorder.

Maybe I’m reaching. Maybe it’s my funk. I don’t think vaccines are bad. But once I made that connection with Adam’s babyhood, I felt like I’d solved a 13-year mystery. And Adam agreed with me; both of us achieved some closure. As I left his room, I blew him kisses from the doorway, as I do every night. Often he blows them back to me. Last night, I shut the door and stood in the hallway a moment. I heard him continue to blow kisses to me even after the door was shut.

I can only hope that when I approach Neil about the driving issue that I can word it in such a way that he can understand.  I don’t want him to see it as a punishment, as a wall of water crashing down on him. I hope that what I discussed with Carrie turns out to be right – that he just needs me to tell him. Maybe once I talk with him and get it all out on the table, I’ll feel better. Free, even. Free of the funk.

Image credit: Oskar Mellemsether