March 14 was Pi Day. And I didn't even have any.

I have been known to sometimes occasionally okay, ALL THE TIME go to the refrigerator drive-through to eat until whatever emotion I am currently feeling (and don't want to anymore) goes away.

Helpful? If I want to go up a pants size, sure.

Does this make my butt look big?

Fooooooood, glorious fooooooooooood... you've always been there for me. Never letting me down. Never really helping, but always trying your best to fill whatever cavernous void was begging to be filled. Never mind that the giant hole was imaginary, and my stomach (and pants) only stretch so much, I ate whatever was in my way to make me feel better. Not unlike someone who cuts or burns themselves, I ate until I hurt. I'm not sure why I'm using "ate". Ate is past tense. I've done this as recently as yesterday.

And every time I succumb to my urge to binge, I look in the mirror. Usually with tear-filled eyes. And I give myself Manning Face.

Disappointed Payton is disappointed.

Life is stressful. Period. Throw in some variables such as a husband, wife, a few kids, jobs, aging parents, saving for whatever, making ends meet, disabilities, school, social life (or lack thereof), and life can just be pretty damned overwhelming. Food has always been my comfort. I may sound like I'm joking, but food never talked about me behind my back. Food never made fun of me and made me feel like I didn't belong. Food never left me. We celebrate with food - your favorite meal on your birthday, cake, ice cream, ice cream cake, Thanksgiving, Christmas - FOOD.

Now all those years of cramming food , eating my emotions, trying to find solace in something I knew wouldn't satisfy me has caught up with me. And I'm tired of not just looking at the size of my clothes, I'm tired of feeling this way. But you know what else? I'm just tired! I commute. I'm a single mom. Shortpants doesn't sleep worth a crap. Also?

I hate working out.

Hate it with the heat of a thousand fiery suns.

I've tried to like it. I've tried the plans, the diets, the workouts, the shakes, starving, all sorts of other unhealthy shit, and I know that it's simple math - burn off more than you take in - but I. HATE. IT.

This is the face I make when I try to eat stuff that's good for me. NOT a selfie, in case you were wondering.

I hate thinking what people at the gym are wondering when I'm jiggling over on the treadmill, I hate assuming that people driving by me as I walk are making fun of me, etc. My brain says "Shut up, stupid, they're not thinking anything that has anything to do with you." My lack of self-worth says "THEY'RE POINTING AT YOU. THEY'RE LAUGHING AT YOU. CALLING YOU FATASS AND SLOB AND CHEESEBURGER."

I am not nice.

To myself.

To everyone else I encounter, I'm overly pleasant. (Unless you know me. And then you know. And those of you that have stuck by me through the years, you have my eternal devotion. But of course you already know that.)

Do you know who Kid President is? If you said no, please leave this blog and go Google his ridiculously adorable face. I'll wait. Listen to his YouTube clips. Really listen. Because this 9 year old is changing my life. KP reminds me that shit's not that bad. Being mean (even to myself) shouldn't be an option. He is smart, eloquent, and says sage things like:

LOOK AT THAT FACE. And that cupcake. Nom.

Pity party over. Am I going to the gym? YES! Probably not. Am I going to make better, meaningful choices? Yes. He nailed it. Life is tough, no matter what cards are in the hand you were dealt. I'm going to stop being mean to myself and make this life meaningful. To stop wishing days would hurry past and live in the moment. To dance about it. To stop letting the scale and my pants size define me. To trust in others to help me through whatever it is I have going on. To remind myself I am not an island, and I deserve to be content. Proud. Loved. Every moment spent sad, angry frustrated, depressed, etc. is a moment I could have been happy. And happy is what I want to be. I choose to be. And damn, that's powerful.

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

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.