Today's Bad Daze

He has good days, he has bad days.
The music teacher says, "He brought such energy to class today, your boy."
He walks on the play yard and a little girl, but big to him, calls out his name, runs to him with a welcome smile.
I peek through the one-way mirror and he's doing it -- whatever -- the same as everyone else.
He goes to the doctor and says, "Take out your otoscope! You need to look in my ears."
I give him two fig cookies, and he hands one to his sister.
"Good night mommy," he says, headed off to sleep, a soft kiss from a lizardy boy breathing deeply, cradled on daddy's shoulder.
He has bad days, he has good days.
The library teacher says, "Today I had no choice to send him back to class."
He walks onto the play yard and two girls from his class shriek, run, hide.
Within moments after I arrive at his classroom window, I must look away, I must walk away, I must.
The doctor says, "I don't know... there are tests we could run..."
Even desperate food bribes fail to keep our commute sane or safe, as he Houdinis out of his car seat to pinch, poke, spray his sister and I with spit.
We quickly stir the melatonin into some milk - diets be damned - and wonder when the nightmares will subside.