"Look Where You're Going, Please."

I say that about a million-dillion times a day to my un-laced, un-hemmed, un-inhibited, unruled-by-gravity boys. "Don't fall down," I say. "You're not so clever that you won't trip."

And it's true. Proven time and time, boo-boo after boo-boo, howl after howl--they will fall if they don't properly assess the situation. If they jump or race or slide, small boys tend to go down hard.
Here's the thing I kinda sorta maybe slightly and completely against my will considered yesterday, tho, that has to do with that: Mommies are just the same. If we don't look, if we don't go the necessary route in the necessary fashion at the necessary speed, if we try to get around/go under/race past something, we, too will go down hard and howl.

Now, I did not get this flair for the obvious from my own vast wisdom, believe me. My dad (who, may I just say, is a whole 'nother book of tales and one that fits right on the family shelf, IF you get my meaning...) is trying very hard to fathom this autism thing--to carry it right along with my mother's illness and figure out why the hell they just don't make brains like they used to. And it's not his thing. Really not. From a very early age, we kids got that this man neither understood, nor enjoyed our presence, but what can you do? My point being that he's never been built for this sort of thing and now he's seventy and he's trying. I'm not saying we all didn't and don't pay for what he couldn't do, but same as before, what can you do? (where was I going with this? Oh...) So he calls and he's trying to be gentle (really really can count these times on one hand, but who's counting?) and he's trying to tell me how the situation could be worse. And while every atom and every particle and every fiber in my heart is howling at him because how the fxck could he even begin to...well, we needn't go there, but while there's all this drama in my silly self, something came out of my mouth clearly without the knowledge or consent of my brain. I swear, I did not have it in me until it came out my mouth. I swear. I said to him, "Dad, LRHF is fine. He's great. He's beautiful and happy. I am struggling. I am tired and angry. I am sad. He ( e.g., LRHF) could not be better. "

I know. Totally not me-ish. Please do sit down.

So I'm rolling this around now. I think that sometimes when God speaks to us and we just keep throwing our tantrums, He must get so bloody pissed that He just sort of slaps us. Shuts us up for a darn second so He can think a minute and so He doesn't have to watch us hyperventilate. I think, I hope that those words He so briefly put in my mouth were a slap like that. A holy "will you just shut up and listen to Me for a second?" Because you know how far down in the hole I am. You know I am not handling this at all. You know I am not stepping up.

But.

Just so briefly, I guess I did look up. Heard those strange and not-me-at-all words and I looked up, mostly to see who the hell was talking, because make no mistake, I am very much still very much in that horrid, weak and dark starting place. It sucks, I'm sad and it freaking hurts. No updates in those areas. But I think that God thinks maybe I might not fall so hard or howl so loud (ly) if I look where I'm going.

Can I? doubt it.

Will I? not today.

I do sort of get His point, tho. So we'll see.

How Long?

How long am I supposed to grieve this autism beast? What is the maximum allowable time in which to cry and kick and yell? When does it soften at the edges and become workable, liveable, prayable? Where is the day when my heart will not break fresh more than one or two times over this?

I want so badly to function. To get on with making it better, helping him adapt, seeing the half-fullness of all this. I know that this grief is selfish and not the least bit helpful to anyone. I know. But damn, I look and look and it is all I have in me right now. I see baby pictures and it hurts. Is that where it happened? Was that when I could have done, should have seen, something? You know, his brother, his twin, almost died at ten days. He caught pneumonia and was taken by ambulance to the NICU. Did I catch it? No. My sister did. Nice job, Mommy. Now, mind you, what the docs originally thought was mottled skin was actually his port wine marks, but still, he was sick, really sick, and I didn't grasp it. Also, mind you, he caught the crap from my sister's kid, but still. So I worried about him, That Little Fuzzy Headed Fellow. I used to rock him and worry that there was some horrid future fallout from all that because I had a bad feeling down deep in my mommy gut. Turns out that the bad feeling was just directed at the wrong crib, the wrong little fellow. Damn.

And yes, I talk to people. Probably talk to them until they wish I was the one who doesn't yet have spontaneous language. And these people use phrases like "fortunate to have a mom like you" and "good parent" and "not your fault" and so forth, and it means nothing to me. Every day, fresh as bread from the oven, I grieve.

My flaw, I know. I have to step up, I know. But Lord be gentle, I can't even look up.

How Long?

"Can Your Boy Dress Himself?"

That's a reference from the King of the Hill where Bobby takes ADHD meds. Because I have to say that most of my boys can dress themselves. Really. Mostly.

Okay, sometimes.

Anyway, Oldest Redheaded Boy started taking ADD meds yesterday. And aw hell, I hate that he does. I'm sad that he does. And daggit, I know better. Back in the day, I worked with ADD/ADHD kids. Truly, I have walked with the medded and the un-medded and the should-be-medded and the forgot-their-medded and the always exciting it's-my-rx-but-my-parents-are-now-medded and I know how it works and that it works, but now he's the medded. And he's mine. So you see how it is.

Yesterday we noted the therapeutic benefit during homework time. Later that evening, he prepared and delivered a lengthy presentation on the sinking of the Andrea Doria to his 4 year old brothers. He closed the presentation with a field trip to the bathroom for a tub-based demonstration of the tragedy. (did I mention that he's a very intense, if unfocused fellow?) He did not spend the evening working on his train/plane/boat/car crash noises. He did not do much in the way of twirling (I don't even want to get into that, but please understand that it was nice not to have it for a change) As a result, I did not spend my evening screaming myself silly, knowing full well that I cannot be heard over the medley of train/plane/boat/car crash noises. So I have to ask: who benefits? Who needs him to be medded? (whispering) Is it me? Is it my problem (read: fault)? Shoddy, shoddy parenting. (normal writing voice) Yes, I know the grown-up answer--we were referred to special people who use special tests and stuff to figure out those answers, and any other kid, any other kid and I would be all about this stuff, but like I said, he's mine. He's a crazy, maddening, obsessive, quirky, bossy, loud, spazzy kid, and I hate how this it's-been-a-long-day-for-the-last year-or-so situation wears on me, but I have to tell you that I still feel really crappy about dosing the kid up on schedule IIs like this. And having to fight with the insurance company about it. That is totally bonus. Oh Please let me give my eight-year-old kid the addictive psycho-stimulants? Oh Please? I know you nixed all that speech therapy and other stuff we asked for when he was younger, and I also know you're completely screwing us on That Little Redheaded Fellow as well, but pretty please?

*sigh*

I know. This is not as huge as I'm feeling right now. Maybe not. And yes, I do have professionals with whom I share all this obsessive mommy guilt. I know.

And you know what else? Right this very freaking minute he is in the living room twirling around and working those awful (if impressively realistic) crash noises that make me want to rip my ears off. So I don't know. I just don't know.

Boys who Believe

So I'm taking the tree down and I'm always sort of glad to be done with all of it--Mommy can only take so many games of Ornament Hockey and Tinsel Toss, but this year, I feel bad. Sad. Teary-sad. And not even for one of the standard and previously stated reasons. I wonder how much Santa is left for us. How much sweet and open awe will survive another year? And worse, how much did I miss/ignore/bitch about this year because of the generally crappy way things are right now? This all sort of came out of nowhere, really. One minute I'm unhooking fake tree limbs and the next I'm trying to hold back time. My sweet boys. Maddening, quirky, sticky-sweet boys. Boys who drive me to frustration and anger and worry and sometimes despair. Boys who won't/don't/can't fit a mold or even a diagnosis. But they're boys who believe. Really believe. And I know I did not revel in it this year. I did not respect the magic of the children. Everything got in the way and I did not consider how ephemeral that magic is. Oh, I hope my boys hang on for another year. Just one more year. I hope with all that's in my beaten-down self. I promise I will be good and I will be patient and I will ponder it all in my heart. I won't let it be crappy day to crappy day existence. I won't. I will look for the light and the joy. I will be grateful for what my boys can do and not despair over what they might not. I really will try.

Amidst the Cold of Winter

Into this weepy and bewildered bleakness, my middle son (that little fuzzy headed fellow) pokes his aforementioned fuzzy head to announce that "'Ho Ho Ho' means 'God is with us'."

Hmm..

Perhaps if I remember the latter when I hear the former, the light will come.

L.

Because I can't

Writing about this is thinking about this and thinking about this is grieving and guilting about this. And I can't just now, so this post is recycled from one I shared with some beloved friends. We are bound to each other by our stretchmarks and our secrets and while we don't see each other much at all, but we are always and absolutely shoulder to shoulder and shoulder for shoulder. Thank you,Dear Friends.

I know that Solstice will come and light will return, but for now I am dark.

I'll try to minimize the backstory as much as I can. D. (that little red headed fellow) will be
tested for autism spectrum disorder soon. I cannot begin to tell you
the depth of my fear and grief. And it's not even a
surprise. We've been dealing with spectrum stuff for the last two
years, and I've been adjusting to it, or so I thought, but THE test.
THE diagnosis. Knowing it and saying it are two very different
things. I have to tell you that he is my heart. He is precious and
singularly beautiful to me. When I hear "Silent Night" there's that bit about "Love's pure Light" and the clean beauty of the line and the melody are exquisitely my son to me.
But this is hard. Hard in so many ways.
It's hard to take everyone places. It's hard to explain to people.
It's hard to do everything, every-freaking-thing. There are things I
know and things I feel and those things are miles apart. I can't
begin to explain my guilt. You wonder what you did, you know? or
didn't do. yes, I know the answer, but a mother's heart isn't logical
like that. Did I miss something? Have I been in denial at his
expense? Am I just bad at this? I'm exhausted and scared and right
now, there's no one to talk to. And it is grief and guilt, and you
can't talk sense to either of those. I've cried more this week than I
can ever remember. And there's a lot of other stuff, Dh is working
evenings now, I've got some medical things, family things--it's just
very, very bad right now. My doctor is blown away by all the crap
factors. A few weeks back she offered to put me in the hospital for
respite. Seriously. And there's nothing to be done. No, I mean it.
I don't need to learn more about autism, I need to grieve. My
beautiful boy--love's pure light. The one most like me, the one I hold most closely to my heart. God help me. How will his life be? How hard will it be? How did this happen?
Who Did This? I wish I could be stronger--my children don't
need this crazy weeping woman dishing out chicken nuggets at them over the dutch doors, god
knows, but I am so weak about it. I know it could be worse. yes, I
know. I know, I know, I know. But I am still screaming.

Not exactly the shiniest holiday catch-up card, is it? Oh, and just this morning, I made my therapist cry. I didn't say mean stuff or anything, just um...gave her the holiday catch-up.
Yeah.

This Hole-y Time of Year

Hearken back, if you will, to my sweet double dutch doors and to my teeny wee bit of glee at finally, (oh please dear God) finally constructing a respectable safety barrier between that little red headed fellow and All Things Dangerous, Poisonous, Sharp and Tasty. Oh my innocence! My short-sidedness! Oh...damn. He's done it again. Over the Gate and Through the Kitchen to ATDP&T He Goes. Three times now I have removed, refilled, redrilled, re-leveled, and re-screwed this lock, which surely must be cast of spun sugar and certainly has no business whatsoever even resembling a lock by virtue of all that re-re-ing I've done just keeping the noun verbed. The door and surrounding areas are peppered (if you're using good-sized green peppers, mind you) with enough holes that people are compelled to ask about our gun policy. Three big ol' damn holes and counting. Dag, he's good. Picture, if you will, TLRHF mounting this door, gaining foothold (where there intentionally is none, nada, nyet), swinging his arm over the ledge (I was so freaking proud of that ledge, too...so sure of myself and my ledge) and flick-click-slap-click-flick--unlocked, opened, cleared, shut, re-locked. He re-locks it. That kills me. Now, I have previously been hesitant to grease the door, probably for all the same reasons you don't grease yours, but I am out of options. And wood putty. I'm out of wood putty.