Where I tell Mother Nature to suck it.

It's been not exactly pleasant at our house this weekend. Or last weekend, for that matter. In fact, it's been akin to a houseful of teenage girls on their cycle being told that one of the members of One Direction (it hurts me to know that I know this crap) has gotten engaged - yeah, that bad.

Depending on where you get your information (and unfortunately, not everything on the interwebs is accurate. I KNOW! Who knew!?), there are two schools of thought regarding whether barometric pressure affects us humans.

Well, gang - I'm here to tell you - IT DOES.

Every time we have a weather change, Shortpants is a maniac. And not a maniac, maniac on the floor, dancing like he's never danced before, no no no... maniac as in he's as unstable as a wolf in a room full of sheep,

You'd think by now he knows what's going to happen when he tries this crap.

 as a Jenga tower in a room full of three year olds,

I don't even know what's going on here, but unless he's trying to move the blocks by osmosis,
 I'd say this is a Jenga Fail.

  as me when I've forgotten my Zoloft and I'm out of coffee.

Yes, I know this is Britney Spears. And it appears she has something caffeinated in her hand. However, we all know how well that worked out for her. Don't fret, I'm not about to shave my head. But I think I've rocked this facial expression a time or seventyjillion.

Here in the merry ol' land of Kansas, Friday was hands-down GORGEOUS. 70ish, light breeze, warm sun, the perfectest perfect spring day. Saturday morning? Overcast. Chilly. Okay, not the end of the world, it's spring after all, not the most predictable season. UNTIL IT STARTED SNOWING. <commence end of the world music> 

We woke up to an inch or two of snow. Which will melt off by today because the high is almost 60. Long story short - I know, too late - the shortest person in this house has been a hot mess, and I am out of junk food to soothe me.

Admittedly, that's a good thing, but damn, kid. You make this getting healthy shit HARD.

So, weather changes, compounded by me forgetting to charge the iPad, equals a whole lot of plans getting canceled. I didn't even mention the barfs on Friday night because that was minor in the cluster that was this weekend. Thankfully, there was not a full moon - oh wait, that was last weekend! 

In sum, Mother Nature could use a Prozac enema. Or hormone therapy. Clearly, she's menopausal. Or stuck in the terrible twos. 

*In searching Google Images for a picture of Mother Nature, everything I found were these absolutely beautiful, ethereal women or these sweet, soft grandmotherly types. I find that very difficult to believe, unless it is a parallel to the exquisite Tom Hiddleston playing Loki. Regardless, she needs to get her poop in a group and stop making life miserable for everyone. Agreed? I thought so.*

I can only guess.

This is an example of PECS (Picture Exchange Communication System) for feelings.
PECS is one system (of many) that can provide a way for non-verbal folks to communicate.
Currently, this is not in use in our home, as Shortpants just isn't into it. Can only lead a horse to water... 

You stand in the middle of the room, screaming in a language only you understand. Tears are streaming down your face as you clench your hands into fists, shaking with emotion. Is it rage? Fear? Pain?

I can only guess.

You look at me with an expression that I can only interpret as "HELP ME. FIX THIS. WHY DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I'M SO PLAINLY TELLING YOU?" as the tears continue to fall, your hands continue to be clenched, and you continue to shake and scream and stare.

And I scream on the inside because I don't know what to do. I can only guess. And that guess, being so very important, is rarely correct. One in an infinite amount of possibilities as to what it is that you need different in this very moment. I scream on the inside until my voice disappears, to the heavens, hoping God hears my plea - but I can only guess.

You come to me, wanting comfort, wanting held; and then you remember. You remember that your emotions are directed at me, and it is my fault - whatever it is - and you claw and scratch and fight and bite and slap your way out of my arms and recover the expression that says so much, but I can only guess.

I want nothing more than to know the right answer: to remove guess from this equation that far surpasses my ability to solve for x; to be able to know exactly what you need, in the exact moment you need it, and to be able to provide it to you immediately - that is my wish, my hope, my need.

But I can only guess.

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

Where I compare Parenting to a Video Game.

My son is four. He's a lot of things, but mainly, he's a four year old boy. Do you know what that means?

He can be kind of an asshole.

Yep. I said it. And I mean it. I know a lot of bloggers have gotten flack lately for calling their spawn the little a-holes that WE ALL KNOW they can be. Every critter that has taken a breath on this planet has the capacity to be a jerkface at one point or another. Even non-breathing things. Like my garden that refused to grow. ASSHOLE GARDEN.

Shortpants is four. Being a jerk comes with the territory.

Example 1: "THAT'S NOT WHAT I WANTED EVEN THOUGH I JUST POINTED TO IT AND GAVE YOU MY ASSENT TO OPEN IT AND EVEN IF I DID WANT IT POINT TWO SIX SECONDS AGO I DON'T WANT IT NOW AND WHY DON'T YOU GET THAT YOU STUPID WOMAN?"

Example 2: "WHAT DO YOU MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAN I HAVE TO WASH MY HAIR! YOU SAID TAKE A BATH NOT WASH MY HAIR! THIS IS SUCH BULLSHIT. NO - WAIT - WHAT ARE YOU DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOING DON'T WASH MY HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIR!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Example 3: "NO I DON'T WANT TO GO OUTSIDE EVEN THOUGH IT'S A BEAUTIFUL DAY. I'D REALLY RATHER WAIT UNTIL THE GUY WITH THE ROAD MAINTAINER COMES TO GET ALL OF THE GRAVEL AND SHIT OUT OF THE GUTTERS AND THENNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN I WANT TO GO OUTSIDE I WANT TO GO OUTSIDE I WANT TO GO OUTSIDE NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Tell me what part of those three examples doesn't scream asshole to you.  I'll wait right here. Patiently.

Four year olds are geniuses at pushing the almighty buttons of the parent. "What, you thought I was done with that glass-shattering screech when I was two? Check this out! SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCHHHHHHHH!" Button pushed. Successfully, I might add. I'm waiting to hear "Oh! I'ma Mario!" every time this, or something similar happens. Like two weeks after I needed a plumber to take the toilet apart because someone WHO MIGHT BE A FOUR YEAR OLD ASSHOLE flushed two bathtub toys, a washcloth, and a disposable razor - flushed God knows what because I'm still paying off the plumber from the first time and thank God I have two toilets and SWEET JESUS WHY DID I BUY THE TOILET THAT CAN FLUSH 10 GOLF BALLS WHEN I OBVIOUSLY NEEDED ONE THAT COULD FLUSH BATHTUB TOYS AND WASHCLOTHS AND A DISPOSABLE RAZOR?!

Do I hear "Oh! I'ma Mario!"? More like "LEVEL UP."

Shit.

She can be taught! Installment Uno!

I decided in the middle of my funk today that I was going to start a weekly list of all the things I learned throughout the week to make the crap salad I was force fed the last few days all rainbows and unicorns and silver line-y and all that. Note: this list is compiled entirely from the kids I work with. (I am a therapist at a community mental health center and I work primarily with kids. My head spins all.day.long. I pink puffy heart my job.)

We'll see how this goes. Something tells me probably nowhere near I intended. As with most of my ideas. I digress. As usual. Anyway.

1.  I need a haircut really badly. He (and he's five, mind you) also told me I might consider "Put some brown on your hair that isn't brown, Miss Kelly. Hair is supposed to be all one color. Like mine." Mmmhmm. Thanks, kid.

2.  I look like a Queen! Also? If I would put a crown "right there" I would look "just like a queen! Not a princess. Princesses are young like me. And you're old. So you would be a Queen." Awesome.

3.  I'm annoying and I get on people's nerves. I KNOW! I gasped just as loud as you just did! "Miss Kelly, since we're practicing telling our feelings in a way that isn't hurtful? I just wanted to let you know that sometimes you're really annoying and you get on my nerves. Is that how I'm supposed to do it? Did I hurt your feelings? I hope not, but you really can! And do! But you're kind of awesome." Um, thanks? And no. And not really, but this is kind of awkward, and thanks. I know.

4.  Pieces of paper don't mean you're smart. "Miss Kelly, I think I'm smarter than you are, and I'm only 6. I know you have dergrees and stuff, but I know a lot." Teach me, Obi Wan.

5.  I don't color worth a crap. "You missed a spot." "You can see your marker lines!" "Did you take art in school?" Yes. "Are you sure?!" Yes. "Really?!" "TYRONE'S SHIRT IS NOT RED AND BLUE IT IS ORANGE AND BLUE! I THOUGHT YOU HAVE KIDS! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO KNOW THIS!" Everyone's a critic.

6.  I have no taste. "Miss Kelly, you sure got a lotta crap in your office." Michael, I'd like for you to say that again with appropriate language and in a way that isn't hurtful. "BUT YOU DO! THERE'S CRAP EVERYWHERE IN HERE! I MEAN STUFF! THERE'S STUFF EVERYWHERE IN HERE! Is that better?" Um, kinda.

7.  Expect the unexpected. "Miss Kelly, I need to go potty." Okay, let's go! "Oh, I mean I needed to go potty. I did go potty." On my couch? "Kinda. And kinda on the floor. And in my shoe." Siiiiiiiiiiiiiighhhh...

Gee! I wonder what sorts of life lessons will be lobbed at my face like a knuckleball next week?

Or in about five minutes. Since Shortpants is ninja quiet...

In all seriousness:

I'm really struggling today.

I'm going through boxes of Shortpants' clothes, preparing for a massive garage sale. It is beyond time that this is done, but I've put it off for so long because I knew how emotional it would be. And I'm talking levels of emotion here.

Level number 1: My little guy is four. FOUR. Holy crap. FOUR. It's not hard for a second to remember him tiny, and squishy, and wiggly, and screamy, and AWAKE, but it's just a reminder that my boy is a big kid now, and I just don't like it one bit.

Level B: It takes me back to a life that no longer exists. When his dad and I were married. When I thought I was happy. When I thought I was doing all I could to be the best mom and wife I knew how to be, and it wasn't enough. When I couldn't see the forest for the trees. When I was working so hard to keep my head above water and make sure my kids were first and foremost, as they should be, and that wasn't enough.

Level III: I'm done having babies. As in, I can't have any more babies. After a hysterectomy this summer (more on that another day), this oven is closed for business. And it's a really good thing and really sucky all at the same time, and another another day, when my thoughts aren't jumbled by the massive traffic jam going on in my brain right now, I may attempt to decipher my thoughts and emotions surrounding that. I just don't have the energy today.

It also takes me to a time before the Autism diagnosis. When I was worrying about his development and his doctor wasn't concerned, and I knew something wasn't quite right, but we just kept on l-i-v-i-n, because as I mentioned above, keeping my head above water and fighting my anxiety and depression that follows me wherever I go in check was almost more than I could handle.

I know it's just stuff. I get that. But just like smells can spark a memory, so can his tiny little socks and badass shirts (that a certain someone told me I probably shouldn't send him to daycare in again...lol). I can't wipe out those memories, for unlike people who come and go in and out of our lives, memories stay.

I should mention that I am the happiest I have been in years. I am in a relationship with someone who has shown me what love truly is - what it means to love fully and to be loved fully in return. I have a son who is the light of my life, and I am so honored to be his mama.

Today just kind of sucks though.

That's all.