Sometimes, my frustration at Bob gets the better of me, and I hit him. Or pull his hair, or pinch him, or kick him, or any of a number of physically abusive gestures. Fortunately, he's usually asleep during these attacks--and so am I--because it only happens in my dreams.

My oldest son, Bob, has been diagnosed with bipolar disorder and ADHD. In two weeks, I will meet with his school to facilitate a Section 504 plan, as recommended by the school counselor. As I investigate various accommodations available under education and disability law, I'm not sure two weeks is enough time for me to prepare.

This week, I encountered yet another insurance / psychiatric medication prescription snafu. Bob's old Seroquel prescription had run through its refills and I submitted a new prescription for his bipolar medication from his psychiatrist. Blue Cross Blue Shield refused to pay for it. Why? Because their monthly limit is 102 tablets. Bob's prescription for his psychiatric medication was written for 105. Yes--splitting hairs over Three. Pills.

Monday morning, I met with Bob's teacher, principal, and school counselor. The district Behavior Specialist was supposed to be there, as well, but (of course) was a no-show. The purpose of this meeting--to develop a "plan" for Bob, my 10 year old son with bipolar disorder. I'm still not sure the meeting accomplished anything, short of making the people in charge feel like they have some semblance of control where no control can be had.

Last week was certainly eventful. After Monday's outburst that led to a call from school, Bob was under strict orders to...well, just try to get through the day without any drama. He did relatively well, presumably because a school skate night at the roller rink was at stake. Or so it seemed.

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.