We're breaking down dealing with Autism into stages.
The EI (Early Intervention) stage equals Ground Zero. There is no where to go but up. We hope. This is a time when the child is labeled as a "Child with Delays."
The CPSE (Committee on Pre-School Special Education) Stage- The foundation has been laid by EI and Pre-School is giving the children there footing. It's at this age that we see the potential. We see the growth and personality. We see a child, not a baby. We see a "Child with a Disability."
Kindergarten-This signifies the moment when the paperwork changes, when the diagnosis becomes permanent. We feel the restriction of the label.
Calling the only Catholic Elementary School in with a Special Education program in Brooklyn, NY:
"What is the tuition for triplets entering Kindergarten?"
I hear a sharp intake of breathe. "Oh, bless you! Let me get the figures for you." I can almost hear the sound of cha-ching.
The woman on the phone fairly purred an amount that made my stomach twist. Not to be deterred, "I understand the school has a Special Education program. What are your capabilities?"
"What is the disability?"
"Autism."
"I'm sorry. We won't accept them. We can in no way give them the care that they need. The school is not equipped to handle that type of pers- that type of disability, a disability of that magnitude."
"What EXACTLY do you think they will need beyond normal education? They do not have cognitive delays."
"Well, they'll need speech. An interpreter, the teachers are not able to deal with children that don't speak and rock."
"My children are verbal. They do not rock uncontrollably. They like routine. One of them is not aware of danger, she'll have a para. Would you accept them if they all had a para?"
"No, I'm sorry. No. You can try this school. It's not Catholic but it's private. They are very elite and expensive. They may be willing to help. I'm sorry."
"Me too."
I dialed the number that she gave me.
"Can you tell me the cost of tuition for three children? And will you accept Autistics?"
"Yes of course. Is it just one child affected?"
"It's all three."
"Not a problem. The cost of education for one year is $45,000 without any of the additional fees, including that it will be about 48,000."
"Thank you. What are your class ratios?"
"All classes are 8:2:1."
"I'm sorry, I'm looking for 12:1:2 or 12:1:1 and Integrated 15. It's not a fit. Thank you for your help."
The label of Autism was suffocating me. We need to decide if we are going to try to get them reclassified.
We need to decide if we finally believe that these markers are always going to be here. We need to decide what is best for them-not what we want to see.
I am so disappointed that the Catholic schools here do not have Autistic programs. Our dream has always been to send our little ones to Catholic school in the little uniforms with the Barbie lunch boxes and book bags; to instill in them the faith that we have, to instill the values that we live at home.
I felt my eyes burning. "God, help me. I want them to have religion class every day. I want them to start and finish their school day with prayer. I want them know life like I did." Like I did-I stopped suddenly and picked up the phone.
I called the elementary school I went to, our parish school and shockingly the principal answered.
I explained what we were looking for and what we needed.
"Of course, we'll accept them. We will work with you on the IEP."
With a weight off my chest, I hung up and called the neurologist. It's time to re-evaluate. It's time to look into the neurologist's eyes and really hear her. Should they be reclassified or do we need to keep the designation of Autism? We're ready.
It's time.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Mommy's Miracles: 2010 in Review
Mommy's Miracles: 2010 in Review: On December 11, 2009, the CEO was diagnosed with ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder) and I felt like our little family unit was silenced with th...
2010 in Review
On December 11, 2009, the CEO was diagnosed with ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder) and I felt like our little family unit was silenced with the diagnosis. I remember hearing the doctor say autism and feeling the blood rush to my head. The roaring sound of my blood silenced most of her words. Key words struck like lightening; non-verbal, self-abusive, MR. I couldn't understand. What did she mean institutionalize? My senses were heightened. It was cold out. My nose could smell the eminent snowfall, my skin had goosebumps from the chill. My eyes watered continuously from the bitterness of the air and the bitterness in my heart. I went home and I could barely speak into the phone and explain to my husband what the doctor had said. He was at work, about to go on the air. My voice kept cracking. I cleared my throat several times before I could mutter the word, Autism. I couldn't say anything more without sobbing and my husband had 40 seconds left before the song ended...We hung up with that word hanging between us, Autism.
Things moved so quickly after that. I remember certain days with a clarity that is striking in the details and some days are a blur.
On December 25th, my husband and I woke up early to listen to his coworkers' children take over the air waves for the holidays. It was one of the nicest events of the year. Since our children had been born, we were waiting for the day that we could hear our little future DJs do their first break. We were able to appreciate it for about 25 minutes before the reality that our daughters, Bugabuga and the CEO, did not speak and very possibly may never speak. We held hands each time the mic was opened. Holding on for dear life. We needed to turn off the radio but we just couldn't take that step. Each word fell with the impact of a knife in the heart. We whispered to each other...next year, next year...they will talk next year...
The frenzy of doctor visits commenced. I had to check my notes to confirm that I was bringing the right child with me to correct appointment. January 15th, and a psychologist is meeting with me and the girls. Four hours later, the psychologist is gone and I'm making another call to my husband. "Honey! Autism, both of them." He had to do a break. I hung up and cried. Our three daughters had Autism. Where do we go from here?
I started picking therapists brains. We didn't know what they needed and we couldn't even say the word Autism. Denial and anger were a constant companion. How do you ask for help if you can't even admit what is wrong?
We needed everyone but we couldn't say a word. To admit that we were devastated was unacceptable but we expected everyone to know and support us. February 1st, we send our girls to a special Autistic Program -school- for the first time. We loaded them on the bus and got on it with them so they would be comfortable. The Baby looked curious and a bit scared. Bugabuga squeezed her eyes shut for the whole ride. She shook continuously. The CEO screamed and cried. We soothed and she screamed louder. We were sweating by the time the bus arrived at the school 20 minutes later. We helped the staff unload the kids and sat in the lobby. We listened to the girls scream for the entire two hours. We stood at their classroom door and saw the CEO slamming her little body against the floor and Bugabuga shaking in her seat. The Baby sat quietly with her chin resting against her chest. Tears were silently plopping onto her shirt. We could barely stand the pain that we heard. We held hands and ignored the tears in each other's eyes. We ignored the fact that my husband had lost his job that morning. We could do this.
April 9th, Handsome was diagnosed. This time my husband was home and we could deal with this together. We held each other tightly and started the process to get him help.
Our girls are finishing their program next week. They are graduating into preschool and they are doing wonderfully. Better than all the doctors expected. They can call me Mommy now and they have a nice little arsenal of vocabulary. We are so proud. They worked so hard to be able to get to this point.We worked so hard.
I was reading the initial intake paperwork recently and I was struck by the CEO's first goal. " X will show emotion and smile and laugh appropriately." I look at her now and watch her sing a Barbie song on the top of her lungs. Smiling and laughing, falling on the floor in a fit of giggles. We did it. They are going to be okay.
Things moved so quickly after that. I remember certain days with a clarity that is striking in the details and some days are a blur.
On December 25th, my husband and I woke up early to listen to his coworkers' children take over the air waves for the holidays. It was one of the nicest events of the year. Since our children had been born, we were waiting for the day that we could hear our little future DJs do their first break. We were able to appreciate it for about 25 minutes before the reality that our daughters, Bugabuga and the CEO, did not speak and very possibly may never speak. We held hands each time the mic was opened. Holding on for dear life. We needed to turn off the radio but we just couldn't take that step. Each word fell with the impact of a knife in the heart. We whispered to each other...next year, next year...they will talk next year...
The frenzy of doctor visits commenced. I had to check my notes to confirm that I was bringing the right child with me to correct appointment. January 15th, and a psychologist is meeting with me and the girls. Four hours later, the psychologist is gone and I'm making another call to my husband. "Honey! Autism, both of them." He had to do a break. I hung up and cried. Our three daughters had Autism. Where do we go from here?
I started picking therapists brains. We didn't know what they needed and we couldn't even say the word Autism. Denial and anger were a constant companion. How do you ask for help if you can't even admit what is wrong?
We needed everyone but we couldn't say a word. To admit that we were devastated was unacceptable but we expected everyone to know and support us. February 1st, we send our girls to a special Autistic Program -school- for the first time. We loaded them on the bus and got on it with them so they would be comfortable. The Baby looked curious and a bit scared. Bugabuga squeezed her eyes shut for the whole ride. She shook continuously. The CEO screamed and cried. We soothed and she screamed louder. We were sweating by the time the bus arrived at the school 20 minutes later. We helped the staff unload the kids and sat in the lobby. We listened to the girls scream for the entire two hours. We stood at their classroom door and saw the CEO slamming her little body against the floor and Bugabuga shaking in her seat. The Baby sat quietly with her chin resting against her chest. Tears were silently plopping onto her shirt. We could barely stand the pain that we heard. We held hands and ignored the tears in each other's eyes. We ignored the fact that my husband had lost his job that morning. We could do this.
April 9th, Handsome was diagnosed. This time my husband was home and we could deal with this together. We held each other tightly and started the process to get him help.
Our girls are finishing their program next week. They are graduating into preschool and they are doing wonderfully. Better than all the doctors expected. They can call me Mommy now and they have a nice little arsenal of vocabulary. We are so proud. They worked so hard to be able to get to this point.We worked so hard.
I was reading the initial intake paperwork recently and I was struck by the CEO's first goal. " X will show emotion and smile and laugh appropriately." I look at her now and watch her sing a Barbie song on the top of her lungs. Smiling and laughing, falling on the floor in a fit of giggles. We did it. They are going to be okay.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Mommy's Miracles: Happiness is a choice.
Mommy's Miracles: Happiness is a choice.: I'm silenced when I hear about the real problems that my friends face. I see pictures of children in wheelchairs, breathing tubes, severe...
Happiness is a choice.
I'm silenced when I hear about the real problems that my friends face.
I see pictures of children in wheelchairs, breathing tubes, severe hypotonia. My heart clenches and I want to make things better. I want to reach out and just hug the parents that are in the pictures too. Sometimes smiling, sometimes caught in the moment of adjusting a child so that they look more comfortable, sometimes frowning and looking exhausted. My words of support fall far short.
"Whatever you need. I'm praying for you." Ever since my children have been born, I've become a watering pot. I will cry instantly when I perceive some one's pain. I saw a co-worker cry and tearfully said, "Why are we crying? What can I do?" She started laughing at the instantaneous tears streaming down my face.
I try to be so tough because we're dealing with a lot. There are times that it feels overwhelming to me. It's not that my children are low functioning, it's just the amount of children affected.
"Sit still. No rocking. Stop playing with your hair. No screaming! No hitting, no biting! Sit still. No rocking. Stop playing with your hair. No Screaming! Stop Screaming! Stop screaming! Why are you screaming? Why are you crying? Stop rocking. Stop rocking. Look at me. Look at me. STOP SCREAMING!!!!"
My life is filled with repetition. But it's filled with love too.
"Mommy, take a picture. I'm SMILING!"
"Mommy, I dancing. Oh, I'm a good dancer! Ha ha!"
"Mommy, uh, adaada, uh, dancing." "Say it again, I'm listening." "Mommy, you like dancing?"
"Mama! Dancing! Get down! Oh oh!"
The kids danced for an hour straight tonight. Laughing and giggling, falling over themselves, belly laughing and squealing with delight. We took pictures and recorded the moments, to be looked at randomly in the future.
I was able to relax and just laugh at their antics. I tried so hard to memorize what was happening and I'm writing it down now so that the feeling never slips away. It's so easy to remember the negative things, the memories are burned into my mind but these memories are the ones that I want to imprint into my mind.
Happiness is a choice.
I see pictures of children in wheelchairs, breathing tubes, severe hypotonia. My heart clenches and I want to make things better. I want to reach out and just hug the parents that are in the pictures too. Sometimes smiling, sometimes caught in the moment of adjusting a child so that they look more comfortable, sometimes frowning and looking exhausted. My words of support fall far short.
"Whatever you need. I'm praying for you." Ever since my children have been born, I've become a watering pot. I will cry instantly when I perceive some one's pain. I saw a co-worker cry and tearfully said, "Why are we crying? What can I do?" She started laughing at the instantaneous tears streaming down my face.
I try to be so tough because we're dealing with a lot. There are times that it feels overwhelming to me. It's not that my children are low functioning, it's just the amount of children affected.
"Sit still. No rocking. Stop playing with your hair. No screaming! No hitting, no biting! Sit still. No rocking. Stop playing with your hair. No Screaming! Stop Screaming! Stop screaming! Why are you screaming? Why are you crying? Stop rocking. Stop rocking. Look at me. Look at me. STOP SCREAMING!!!!"
My life is filled with repetition. But it's filled with love too.
"Mommy, take a picture. I'm SMILING!"
"Mommy, I dancing. Oh, I'm a good dancer! Ha ha!"
"Mommy, uh, adaada, uh, dancing." "Say it again, I'm listening." "Mommy, you like dancing?"
"Mama! Dancing! Get down! Oh oh!"
The kids danced for an hour straight tonight. Laughing and giggling, falling over themselves, belly laughing and squealing with delight. We took pictures and recorded the moments, to be looked at randomly in the future.
I was able to relax and just laugh at their antics. I tried so hard to memorize what was happening and I'm writing it down now so that the feeling never slips away. It's so easy to remember the negative things, the memories are burned into my mind but these memories are the ones that I want to imprint into my mind.
Happiness is a choice.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Mommy's Miracles: Sometimes that's enough.
Mommy's Miracles: Sometimes that's enough.: "I have asthma, Mommy, so I cough sometimes." There are some illnesses that make a parent sad but don't shatter a home; like asthma. I th...
Sometimes that's enough.
"I have asthma, Mommy, so I cough sometimes."
There are some illnesses that make a parent sad but don't shatter a home; like asthma. I think asthma can be frightening when you watch a person struggle to breathe. I think it can be frightening to struggle to breathe. I know it is because I'm a severe asthmatic.
I don't remember my mother crying randomly because of my asthma. I don't remember my mother worrying that I would make friends. Asthma is common. It's accepted. It's not autism. I hope autism will be more accepted as the diagnosis becomes more of a fact rather than the exception.
"Argh!"
"Handsome, what's the matter? Use your words."
"Argh!" He yanks his hand free from me and I clamp on to his hand with my death grip.
"We never let go, NEVER! Hold hands!"
He's stuck. A kindly man gave him a balloon from his store. He wasn't expecting this. What if it flies away? He hates the feel of the ribbon on his skin. We're at an impasse.
"We need to keep walking if you want to go to the park. Come on, Handsome. You want to have fun, right?"
"Yesshh."
"Good! Let's go!"
We struggled continuously with the ribbon and the balloon until we reached the park. I was already tired and in pain. My hand never loosened its grip. I have severe carpal tunnel syndrome, a gift from my pregnancy with the girls. Maintaining that angle is excruciating but it's necessary.
I let go the instant we were safely in the playground. He ran from spot to spot, so excited to do everything but afraid to try anything. It was a nice moment to take a deep breathe...And then he began to tantrum.
He was laying on the floor screaming on the top of his lungs, thrashing his little body, so angry and frustrated.
"Tell me what you want to do."
"Argh! Argh! Argh!"
"Use your words. I don't understand you. I want to help you."
He begins to punch and kick me, grunting the whole time. I know EXACTLY what he wants. He wants to climb a part of the jungle gym that is more appropriate for an older kid. He doesn't understand that his little legs won't reach the next level. But even if they did, no way would I let him do that if he didn't verbalize his intent.
"I'm sorry. I'm confused. I don't know what you mean. What is ARGH?"
He points and says play.
"Play? That sounds wonderful. Let's do that, what do you want to do? I want to..."
"Play!"
"Say it again."
"I want to play!"
"Perfect! Let's go!"
He begins to climb a mountainous contraption, so large that I easily walk underneath it and place my hands up between the bars that he attempts to grip with his feet and when he misses, my hand bear his weight so that he does not fall through the bars. My heart is pounding but he makes it up to the top and smiles to himself. He made it.
The afternoon is filled with running and jumping, laughing and playing, ice cream and sprinklers. I see my husband beginning to unwind and I feel certain that the other shoe will drop. I can feel it in my bones.
"I want slide." Handsome runs up to the top of the steps, takes one look down the slide and throws his body backwards. My heart skips a beat. I can't reach him from there. Oh my God, there are kids coming up the stairs. Please God, no! Don't let anyone get hurt. Please!
I did the only thing I could do, I shriek, "Handsome! Oh God! Help me! Watch out! Move!"
I'm flying up the mountain that he painstakingly climbed; pushing children out of my way as I watch my son tumble down the steps and take out four kids in the process. He's never done this before; I hear the screams of pain and I'm stepping over each kid to get to my boy laying on top of a bigger boy. I reach down and see his laughing face. He not aware of the danger he was in. He's not aware of the injured kids. It's time to go home.
My hands are shaking as we grab a cab.
"Mommy, I don't want to go home." The CEO begins to scream. I hear the frantic note in her voice and I know that it's not a regular moment in time when a child wants to continue playing. It's a child that NEEDS to continue playing because we didn't count her down. We broke routine. Fuck. Not another one, not now. Handsome is rubbing his body against me seeking input. He's pulling at my arms to hug him and I'm looking into the CEO's eyes as they go blank and my heart squeezes. I've lost her.
She screams all the way home, rocking and slamming her body against me and Handsome. Pulling her hair and mine. I'm sweating as we herd them up the stairs. She's throwing herself to the ground. I can't do this right now, Handsome is trying to climb my body so that he can get input. I pick him up and squeeze. I feel him relax. He knows where he is now in space. I grab the other girls as I leave my husband to deal with the CEO's meltdown.
My husband leaves for work an hour later at 6:00pm. She's still screaming.
It's 2:30 in the morning and I hear Handsome scream because of his night terrors. I jump out of bed to reach him before he can wake up the others. I slowly calm him down using deep pressure techniques.
The clock reads 3:49 and I finally feel myself falling asleep.
The radio blares at 6 am. It's time to get the kids ready for school. I stumble around and all is running well.
"Bugabuga, can you get the wipes?" My husband innocently asks.
She waddles into the next room and just stands there.
"Bugabuga! Bugabuga!" No response. "CEO go help your sister."
She walks into the room and grabs the wipes out of her hands. Bugabuga begins to cry. We have to start over. We cannot move on until she repeats the routine and completes it.
We're running late. Bugabuga is not speaking, but rather making mewing noises.
"Let's go! I have to go to work. Come on guys! Let's get your socks and shoes on. Get your shoes."
I reach over to grab Bugabuga's shoes and pass them to her. She couldn't reach them. All hell breaks loose. She throws the shoes at my face and throws herself on the floor. "No, I do it!"
She's in a full tantrum. The bus should be here any minute.
"I need to get your shoes on. Let's go!"
"No! No! No!"
"Yes!"
I struggle to get her socks and shoes on. She tears them off as soon as I let go of her feet. I step away and let my husband jump in. We have an agreement. We will never let them do something that will impede their ability to function as an adult. In this instance, I feel that we should not let her start her routine over. She'll miss the bus and she will not always be able to restart. She needs to learn that sometimes she just needs to keep going. Life is not perfect. I watch my husband redirecting her. She's fighting us.
"I'm going to let her do it."
"No, we have to be consistent."
"She has to get the bus." We rarely disagree and I throw up my hands. I know where he's coming from but I know the end result. She'll get her way and I'll be the asshole while he's the hero.
After less than two hours of sleep, I'm not happy.
I head back into the shower because I've sweat so much that I need to change my clothes.
I feel so alone. Broken and beaten. Maybe I'm doing this wrong. Maybe I need to let them run right over me. Why the hell am I always choosing the fight rather than the easy road? I want the fucking easy route!
The bus is late. I'm dressed and ready to go. I kiss and hug everyone good bye. I struggle to keep my emotions in check. I hold my husband a bit tighter. He's my strength when I'm weak. It's been a rough 24 hours. Time to put on my happy face.
The train ride does nothing to calm me down. I'm so upset. I want to cry but I can never let go of my control. I sit down at my desk. Put my headphones on at the loudest volume, stare down at the numbers and close out the world for a few hours. I pour my heart into the numbers.
Sometimes that's enough.
There are some illnesses that make a parent sad but don't shatter a home; like asthma. I think asthma can be frightening when you watch a person struggle to breathe. I think it can be frightening to struggle to breathe. I know it is because I'm a severe asthmatic.
I don't remember my mother crying randomly because of my asthma. I don't remember my mother worrying that I would make friends. Asthma is common. It's accepted. It's not autism. I hope autism will be more accepted as the diagnosis becomes more of a fact rather than the exception.
"Argh!"
"Handsome, what's the matter? Use your words."
"Argh!" He yanks his hand free from me and I clamp on to his hand with my death grip.
"We never let go, NEVER! Hold hands!"
He's stuck. A kindly man gave him a balloon from his store. He wasn't expecting this. What if it flies away? He hates the feel of the ribbon on his skin. We're at an impasse.
"We need to keep walking if you want to go to the park. Come on, Handsome. You want to have fun, right?"
"Yesshh."
"Good! Let's go!"
We struggled continuously with the ribbon and the balloon until we reached the park. I was already tired and in pain. My hand never loosened its grip. I have severe carpal tunnel syndrome, a gift from my pregnancy with the girls. Maintaining that angle is excruciating but it's necessary.
I let go the instant we were safely in the playground. He ran from spot to spot, so excited to do everything but afraid to try anything. It was a nice moment to take a deep breathe...And then he began to tantrum.
He was laying on the floor screaming on the top of his lungs, thrashing his little body, so angry and frustrated.
"Tell me what you want to do."
"Argh! Argh! Argh!"
"Use your words. I don't understand you. I want to help you."
He begins to punch and kick me, grunting the whole time. I know EXACTLY what he wants. He wants to climb a part of the jungle gym that is more appropriate for an older kid. He doesn't understand that his little legs won't reach the next level. But even if they did, no way would I let him do that if he didn't verbalize his intent.
"I'm sorry. I'm confused. I don't know what you mean. What is ARGH?"
He points and says play.
"Play? That sounds wonderful. Let's do that, what do you want to do? I want to..."
"Play!"
"Say it again."
"I want to play!"
"Perfect! Let's go!"
He begins to climb a mountainous contraption, so large that I easily walk underneath it and place my hands up between the bars that he attempts to grip with his feet and when he misses, my hand bear his weight so that he does not fall through the bars. My heart is pounding but he makes it up to the top and smiles to himself. He made it.
The afternoon is filled with running and jumping, laughing and playing, ice cream and sprinklers. I see my husband beginning to unwind and I feel certain that the other shoe will drop. I can feel it in my bones.
"I want slide." Handsome runs up to the top of the steps, takes one look down the slide and throws his body backwards. My heart skips a beat. I can't reach him from there. Oh my God, there are kids coming up the stairs. Please God, no! Don't let anyone get hurt. Please!
I did the only thing I could do, I shriek, "Handsome! Oh God! Help me! Watch out! Move!"
I'm flying up the mountain that he painstakingly climbed; pushing children out of my way as I watch my son tumble down the steps and take out four kids in the process. He's never done this before; I hear the screams of pain and I'm stepping over each kid to get to my boy laying on top of a bigger boy. I reach down and see his laughing face. He not aware of the danger he was in. He's not aware of the injured kids. It's time to go home.
My hands are shaking as we grab a cab.
"Mommy, I don't want to go home." The CEO begins to scream. I hear the frantic note in her voice and I know that it's not a regular moment in time when a child wants to continue playing. It's a child that NEEDS to continue playing because we didn't count her down. We broke routine. Fuck. Not another one, not now. Handsome is rubbing his body against me seeking input. He's pulling at my arms to hug him and I'm looking into the CEO's eyes as they go blank and my heart squeezes. I've lost her.
She screams all the way home, rocking and slamming her body against me and Handsome. Pulling her hair and mine. I'm sweating as we herd them up the stairs. She's throwing herself to the ground. I can't do this right now, Handsome is trying to climb my body so that he can get input. I pick him up and squeeze. I feel him relax. He knows where he is now in space. I grab the other girls as I leave my husband to deal with the CEO's meltdown.
My husband leaves for work an hour later at 6:00pm. She's still screaming.
It's 2:30 in the morning and I hear Handsome scream because of his night terrors. I jump out of bed to reach him before he can wake up the others. I slowly calm him down using deep pressure techniques.
The clock reads 3:49 and I finally feel myself falling asleep.
The radio blares at 6 am. It's time to get the kids ready for school. I stumble around and all is running well.
"Bugabuga, can you get the wipes?" My husband innocently asks.
She waddles into the next room and just stands there.
"Bugabuga! Bugabuga!" No response. "CEO go help your sister."
She walks into the room and grabs the wipes out of her hands. Bugabuga begins to cry. We have to start over. We cannot move on until she repeats the routine and completes it.
We're running late. Bugabuga is not speaking, but rather making mewing noises.
"Let's go! I have to go to work. Come on guys! Let's get your socks and shoes on. Get your shoes."
I reach over to grab Bugabuga's shoes and pass them to her. She couldn't reach them. All hell breaks loose. She throws the shoes at my face and throws herself on the floor. "No, I do it!"
She's in a full tantrum. The bus should be here any minute.
"I need to get your shoes on. Let's go!"
"No! No! No!"
"Yes!"
I struggle to get her socks and shoes on. She tears them off as soon as I let go of her feet. I step away and let my husband jump in. We have an agreement. We will never let them do something that will impede their ability to function as an adult. In this instance, I feel that we should not let her start her routine over. She'll miss the bus and she will not always be able to restart. She needs to learn that sometimes she just needs to keep going. Life is not perfect. I watch my husband redirecting her. She's fighting us.
"I'm going to let her do it."
"No, we have to be consistent."
"She has to get the bus." We rarely disagree and I throw up my hands. I know where he's coming from but I know the end result. She'll get her way and I'll be the asshole while he's the hero.
After less than two hours of sleep, I'm not happy.
I head back into the shower because I've sweat so much that I need to change my clothes.
I feel so alone. Broken and beaten. Maybe I'm doing this wrong. Maybe I need to let them run right over me. Why the hell am I always choosing the fight rather than the easy road? I want the fucking easy route!
The bus is late. I'm dressed and ready to go. I kiss and hug everyone good bye. I struggle to keep my emotions in check. I hold my husband a bit tighter. He's my strength when I'm weak. It's been a rough 24 hours. Time to put on my happy face.
The train ride does nothing to calm me down. I'm so upset. I want to cry but I can never let go of my control. I sit down at my desk. Put my headphones on at the loudest volume, stare down at the numbers and close out the world for a few hours. I pour my heart into the numbers.
Sometimes that's enough.
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