She can still fuck up my day.

I cant hear the phone call for shit.

The traffic on 13th is just to heavy.

But I had to take the call. It is the lady from Child Protective Services that called earlier in the day to tell me that J. is being investigated (for the second time in a year) by CPS.

Some ass hat in a muscle car with no muffler passes and the last sentence I hear is: "Something about knives and a white powder on the floor."

I feel my heart race, and my gorge rise. I feel all the same emotions that made me lash out at her all those months ago. That same kind of rage that seems only to be reserved for those that put my kids at risk. I'm that father. I want to rush things, to some how get them back in my arms tonight, instead of doing things the right way and making things safe and healthy for them here. Each day is one step closer, but how many one more days do I get.

I talk with the lady from CPS, and I get to tell her that J. has had a temper for as long as I've known her. And she starts asking me about medication history and the like. I try not to exaggerate, because I know that I'm very pissed, and that when fueled with anger I tend to blow things out of proportion. But I tell the truth.

The CPS lady tells me what they are going to do and how they are going to follow up. It reassures me as to the safety of my children. But it doesn't stem my anger.

I let it simmer.

I let it fuel these words. I let it fuel a lot of words in the past. And like sitting meditation I release the real anger, with the thought of anger.

I will see them this weekend. I will see them this weekend. I will see them this weekend.

New mantra.

F. says to eat dinner. Me. says to breathe. I say I will try and do both.

Out with the anger.

File under Vice.