I’m having a hamster wheel kind of day. I can see where I think I’m going. But I’m waiting. Waiting to hear if a doctor will give me a label, a simple word, a diagnosis to work with. (Sensory Processing/Integration Disorder doesn’t qualify a child for state services.) We have an appointment at the end of July with a developmental/behavioral pediatrician.
(It seems so absurd to need a label in a world where we shrug labels off and live freely with a sense of individuality.)
(I’m torn.)
(Nevermind, you are fine you are normal no one is allowed to talk about your weirdnesses again.)
(Except wait, no. You need more than we can give you on our own.)
(Teeth clenched, expletives tickling my tongue, shoulders tight.)
(What a ridiculous thing to be waiting for.)
My son had a bad day this morning which made all of it feel more urgent when really it isn’t any more urgent than it was yesterday. It’s just that when he’s hitting his brother or hitting himself in the face or shrieking or seems absolutely unable to break out of an ugly tantrum — I start to feel especially helpless. That isn’t my child. There’s the urgency.
I’m urged to figure something out and have a plan or maybe just run out the front door and scream at mockingbirds and mosquitoes for a while.
(“That’s not who he is. My son is so sweet,” a mother said today. I sat at a table with her and four other moms. Strangers. Chatting about our quirky boy-children. Another said, “Sometimes I just want a flask in my pocket at the grocery store,” but then added, sheepishly, that she doesn’t drink. And there we were, briefly connected, a community, offline. It felt like finally being in a room with oxygen.)
I feel like I’m always yelling. (Making excuses?) (Letting him walk all over me?) (Spoiling him?)
But tomorrow might be a good day again — and hey tonight might be a good evening — and some restart button I hope I have will get pressed and I’ll exhale and we’ll just keep going.
This may or may not be related:
