I Have Been Outed

Yes, it's true. I am out.

Oddly enough, I don't feel even a teeny bit liberated by the experience. No huge sigh of relief. No new-found empowerment. Strange, huh?

Oh. Wait. Maybe it's not the same thing.

I have been outnumbered, outwitted and definitely out-penised. Maybe there's another kind of out that is more fun. I'll have to ask.

We ran out of therapists last week. Yes. I have been the only adult for fewer than seven days and already I'm bitching about it. Ahh....yeah, you've met my kids, so don't look at me that way.

For the last year and a half, we've had therapists in the LRHF Home Therapy Program, mostly six days a week. We revolved around them because they revolved around LRHF. I kept one bathroom up to OSHA standards (sorta), watched out for untimely cat puke, and kept a lot of doors shut. It was nice.

I miss it.

I miss it for the obvious and scary reasons, of course, that well, he's getting no therapy. That's the big reason. But not trailing too far in second place is that it was really, really really great to be able to go outside and work, or take soup to a neighbor (yes I did really do that, thank you very much) and come back to okay-ness. Nothing broken. Minimal screaming, everyone accounted for, no one eating glue...it was good. Waaaay good. Damn Good.

In fewer than seven days I have found out that I am so freaking out of my league that, I don't know, someone should call somebody or something. LRHF keeps looking for his "staff" and he's mad as hell that they're gone. Mad as hell for LRHF means entire boxes of cheese crackers opened and crushed and spread all over the many rugs in many rooms, dvd players dismantled, freezers left just slightly open, and all other manner of other reindeer games.

Oh God, the juice! The-pouring-red-juice-myself-episodes! Ohhhh noooo....wow, that is some sticky shit, let me tell you what.
What I'm waiting for is the egg thing. That will be the real death knell for me and all my marginal mothering ambition. That's when he finds the 18 pack of eggs that we've hidden in the fridge and just cracks them all. Eighteen eggs. Massacred. Now, it used to be that he left a trail from the fridge to the stove. Probably eight feet of egg goo. Eventually, the number of eggs lost in battle remained unchanged, but the trail got shorter as his aim improved. Still, eighteen eggs, is eighteen eggs. And no cleaning staff is, well, me scraping the congealed crap up as best I can before someone dances in it.

*sigh*

And just to be straight (not that there's anything wrong with that), I'm around. Seriously, where would I go? But he has this drive for independance that I just can't beat. Back when we first started therapy, I'd spend entire days dancing around my kitchen asking him what he wanted...trying to get requests out of him. All different ways. Must have looked like an absolute idiot to him. Nothing. Then, the very second I, oh...went to relieve myself, or break up another fight, or clean up another mess, he was all over getting the stuff himself. Like a superhero, he was. Cheezit Man. (Can you just picture that superhero outfit? Good thing he looks good in that color) I have pre-poured juice all ready for safe and dripless consumption. No good. He wants to pour it himself, and so he will. With varying degrees of success. Now this is part of the package regarding the men here. The world is made up of men in their family and Idiots. You do the math.

I'm scared about finding therapy for him. Really scared. Praying a lot. Really praying. Please don't mistake my priorities here.

But honestly? I'm so...tired. Feel like I've been on guard forever. Don't I get 15 minutes for every 4 hours? I've got stuff to do, stuff that has to be done, like laundry and then stuff I *might* enjoy doing, like working outside. Did you see mani-pedi anywhere in that last sentence? Me neither. And yet. Constant vigilance is not my strongpoint. Much better at vague awareness. Or gut feeling. But this constant chase,(and it is a chase, he's that freaking fast), is killing me. He's totally onto me. I can't win. I am too old and he is too smart.

Please, please, I just want a tiny bit of that old okay-time back...just a second or two. It's been a really long day for the last few years. I'm losing light. That spark that I swear I saw at the end of the tunnel. But no end in sight. No therapists lined up. Just a very smart, ferociously frustrated autie, his drama queen-esque, slightly-ignored-but-no-less-loved brothers, and their very sad, very scared, and very tired mother.

He's winning. I'm yelling. It's not working. It's not working.

I don't like being out, thank you very much. Can I ask for a time-out instead? That sounds so lovely. The little chair in the quiet hall...I'm 43, so one minute per year (ask any child expert) means almost an hour for me.

Wow. I'm in.