Guilt. Lots and lots of guilt.

I'm having a moment where I hate to even say out loud what I'm feeling. So I thought a much better idea would be to put it on the internet, where surely someone else has felt the same way, and then we can have a pity party of two rather than just one, because one is the loneliest number and all that crap.

I'm lying. I'm not having a moment, I'm having a week. Maybe three of them. But I guess after almost two years of just going and doing, I can be mad. Angry. Hurt. Enraged. Feel sorry for him and myself and us. 

Quinn:
On the left, the day we took him home!
On the right, a couple of months ago.

WHY? I did everything I could to ensure a healthy pregnancy. I did everything I could from the minute that beautiful nugget of goo and screams was pulled (and I mean pulled, my epidural was wearing off and I felt that shit) out from me and into the world to make sure that all his needs were met. I nursed as long as I could. I tried to keep my stress levels down.

AFTER TRYING MY BEST WE STILL GOT AUTISM. AND I'M FINALLY SAYING HOW ANGRY I AM ABOUT IT. Because of Autism, I can't find a sitter. Because of Autism, I'm afraid to move a mere 75 miles from my parents. Because of Autism, the school system can eat a dick. Because of Autism, I don't get to hear "I love you, Mama." Because of Autism, we are alone. Because of Autism, I feel like the world's most inept mother because I don't always know what my son needs, because I can't afford the proper schools or therapies or a completely sensory friendly home. Because of my job, he doesn't qualify for SSDI. Because of my job, I don't qualify for child care assistance. Because of Autism. Because of Autism. Because of Autism.

And then I feel like the world's biggest dickface.

I said we. But it's not we. He has Autism. He has the lifelong struggle of dealing with this disability that has no cure and no source. I don't parent him any differently than I would any other child. I say that, but do I know that? He is my only child. It's just he and I in this world. I am a 37 year old single mother of a child with challenges. His smile sends lightening bolts to my soul. He is perfectly unaware at age four of how hard life can and will be.

What, you don't watch TV like this?

Right now I fight his battles, and I will fight them until the day I have no fight left in me, meaning I will fight until my last breath is taken. When my anger takes hold of me, I feel like I have no fight. That I've hit the proverbial dead end of strength and will and determination. I am tired.

He rarely sleeps for more than four hours at a stretch. He prefers to wear only the softest of clothes that barely touch him due to tactile sensory issues. I can count on two hands the number of foods that he will eat due to oral sensory issues. His pacifer is the only thing that has soothed him in his life. I'm currently researching different home health stores for the best buy on pull ups since he is about to outgrow the biggest size that Pampers/Huggies/Whoever makes. I just purchased a swing with a three point harness, because swinging is his favorite thing in the whole world and a regular swing isn't safe for him, as he'll forget to hold on, completely enthralled by the wind stroking his skin.

Joy, personified.

I know that I use unsavory language in my posts. And if that is offensive, I apologize. It is certainly not my intent to offend. I just sometimes do not have a grip on more appropriate words that emphasize how intense my feelings are.

Regardless of every sleepless night, every meltdown, if I have to buy pull ups and pacifiers and iPads and we watch Sesame Street clips until my last breath - I won't regret a second of it. But alas, I am human, and I have feelings, and I can certainly be angry about life not turning out the way I thought it would. But what I cannot do, I won't do - is let the curtain of anger blind me from the absolute joy and exhilaration of raising a beautiful, sensitive, hilarious, energetic, loving, snuggly, ornery boy.

My hands are full, indeed - but so is my heart.

Love, Kelly and Quinn