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| (That's me in the short-shorts) |
- you signed up for it before knowing exactly what it would entail
- other people make it look easy
- halfway through it you realize you still have a very long way to go
- you wonder how anyone finishes it alive
- you find yourself wishing that maybe you had taken up squash instead
This morning was one of those full-blown, drag-out, screaming, yelling, tearful mornings of resistance that came on the heels of yesterday morning's full-blown, drag-out, screaming, yelling, tearful morning of resistance. Two days of not wanting to go to school. Two days of Gutsy insisting that the problem is that school starts too early, not that he stays up too late. Two days of his dad and I snapping at each other under the strain, of his brothers avoiding World War III at all costs, of Spawnling covering his ears and crying while Intrepid leads him into the living room to distract him. Two days of dropping Gutsy off well after the bell, filling out a late slip, and feeling like the worst parent ever. Because after doing this for so long, shouldn't I have figured out how to make it work?
On mornings like this, I'm often left dumbfounded as to how we manage to stay sane. Then I remember that thinking I'm sane probably means I'm not, so that explains a few things. I likely went crazy a long time ago, thus throwing up a shield of denial so thick that it is near impenetrable. I'm so smart.
I can't begin to describe how depleted I am after running this proverbial marathon. We do this dance nearly every day, arriving at school with blood pressure so high it would fail a drug test, with resentment unjustly placed upon a poor little boy who can't help himself. He's not trying to be difficult. He's not trying to make everyone's morning chaotic. He's doing the best he can in his limited capacity to deal with the stress he feels about walking through those elementary school doors.
But that doesn't mean it's easy to deal with.
I can normally keep it together, but today wasn't one of those days. I had done everything right: talked to him about the things bothering him at school (including being picked on by some boys in his class), came up with an action plan, did some yoga and meditation with him before bed in hopes of helping him be more rested, picked out his clothes with him before lights out, and got him up half an hour earlier in anticipation of it taking a long time for him to get ready.
It took two full hours for him to get dressed, eat, put on his hearing aids, and get to school. And those two hours were absolute hell. He fought tooth and nail as I did everything from staying completely calm to eventually yelling (I'd like to pat myself on the back because it took over an hour of him refusing to get out of bed before I even raised my voice, but it doesn't feel all that commendable). So, as hour two approached, I sat at my kitchen table and cried - hard. It was one of those defeated, exhausted, chest rattling sobs. Gutsy kept apologizing and saying that he'd try harder tomorrow. Talk about a guilt trip. Poor kid.
Oh, but it gets worse. The Maven doesn't go home until she goes big.
Off to Gutsy's school we went, he in a happier mood, Spawnling still in his pyjamas with winter boots and coat, I with puffy eyes, no makeup, and hair that rivalled Medusa's. After signing his late slip and sending him off to class, I started explaining to the receptionists (whom I've known for years) that we were really, really trying to get him to school on time and that I didn't want them to think that we're delinquent parents who don't care.
And then I started crying again. And one of them gave me a hug. And the whole time I'm thinking that I look like a complete idiot - an unkept one at that - standing here in the middle of the school office with tears in my eyes and a child with pyjama pants on beside me.
It was official: I had become that mother. The unstable one. The one with "problems". Lovely.
They were very quick to reassure me that nobody thinks we're bad parents, and that they know we're doing our best. And it was even said in that sincere, we're-not-just-saying-that-to-get-you-out-of-here way. That was nice, but now I'm a good parent who's doing her best and who cries in the school office. Oh goody!
On my way out, I ran into another wonderful support staff who offered up more hugs as Spawnling impatiently waited at the front door for me (I had promised him Tim Hortons after we dropped off his brother and he was making sure I knew how to keep a deal). So I cried some more and gave her the rundown, while Spawnling said he'd wait for me outside. As I was thanking her for being so wonderful, I looked outside and saw that Spawnling was defiantly standing on the edge of the road, glaring at me.
Now, not only am I the disheveled drama queen mother, but I'm the disheveled drama queen mother who can't keep track of her kids because she's too busy crying.
There are entire reality shows dedicated to people like me.
Despite my embarrassment, I ran to the road feeling a little better. My son goes to a great school with people who really care about him. They understand that we're under a lot of stress and that we do our best. So I don't need to feel like a terrible parent, and I can drop my child off in the morning - sometimes late - knowing that he's in good hands. To parents of special needs kids, this is like striking gold.
I am not the world's best mom. I mess up from time to time. I lose my shit, I cry in inappropriate places, I'm far too hard on myself. But I'm not a robot, and my emotions are what keep me in the race. If I couldn't hurt deeply, I couldn't love deeply, and thus wouldn't have the motivation to run this marathon for him. For him.
I would do anything for him.
Tomorrow's another day, right? And tomorrow - or the next day, if that's when I have time - I will blog about an amazing parenting workshop I went to. Despite the events of the last couple of days, the advice I received about discipline has been helping a great deal.