Thank You Mom, I DO Act Just Like Him

We’ve had several long days out of the house.  Large chunks of it were frustrating and difficult because my children were home on Spring Break.  (Officially over as of now, this is the weekend, and everyone goes to school and work on Monday.)

The best part of Friday was spending time with my Mom.  My Mommy loves me!  We were talking about all the paperwork I’m keeping track of all of a sudden and she came up with a thoughtful way to help.  She brought me a whole box of nifty filing supplies and it was the best present ever.  After lunch and haircuts, we sat in the park and watched the kids play.  I organized my bag full of paper and pulled out appropriate reports for her to read.

It was interesting to get her take on some of it.  As she read the reports about her grandson’s diagnosis of autism, she said, “A lot of this sounds like how you were as a kid.”  And I completely agree.  (Although, I don’t remember getting ready for school and only putting on one sock.  I do remember that getting ready for school was an impossible task many days.)

As always, this diagnosis makes me wonder where does his behavior cross the line between autism and just being a kid?  Based on the initial testing, It sounds like we’re also dealing with an underlying chromosomal defect, we’re just waiting to hear exactly what, but that’s not inheritable.  But how much of his behavior is genetic and how much is autism?  How much of it is that he’s like me?

my bobby face.JPG copy

Me at an awkward stage, looking just like my son.

I have certainly found, that the things about my son that annoy and frustrate me the most are the times that he is most like me.  Parenting is an opportunity to experience upper-division classes in self-love.  Obviously, I still have my own crap to clean up, or I wouldn’t get such a clear reflection of the things I don’t want to see.

F’rinstance…

I had my own full-blown meltdown this morning.  My morning ritual is to make a cup of coffee and drink it while it’s hot.  My simple ritual was disturbed while I was feeling hungry and sleepy and overwhelmed.  (My kitchen is hideous, we’ve slept here every night, but we’ve been out of the house for several days and no one has done anything but make more messes.  Tomorrow is Easter, and no one has clean clothes and my husband is working overtime, so he needs clean clothes in a few hours.)

I resolutely went to the kitchen to make my one perfect cup of coffee.

My father-in-law, who lives in the basement now, ran out of his coffee while we were out, so he used mine.  The coffee cone was full of grounds where he spilled over the filter.  I calmly took the filter out and went to rinse out the cone.  The sink was full of dishes, so I rearranged the mess so I could use the faucet, getting a bit irritated with everyone that they can’t rinse a fricking dish or stack it in any sensible manner.  Breathe.  I reached for my pyrex measuring cup that I use to heat up my water, noticing that the bottom was filled with sludge, and the handle was sticky.

OH MY GOD I HATE STICK-EH!  ::font: sarcasm (Hmmm… What, me?  Texture issues? nah.) /endfont::

I went and cried for a few minutes and my husband found me and got me to tell him what was up.  He wanted me to check out the cool app he found.  I did, it was nifty, but I could tell I was approaching meltdown unless I got some food quickly.  So again, I squared my shoulders and faced the kitchen.  BREATHE!  Focus on what I want it to look like, focus on that perfect cup of coffee that I’m going to have.

I realized, gee!  I have another pyrex measuring cup and it’s clean.  I don’t have to touch the sticky thing until I’m ready to do the dishes.  Yay!  I started my water, rinsed out my cup, rinsed my cone, again, and put in a filter.  Opened the grinder to find almost a cup’s worth of coffee ground superfine.  (Note to self: tell grandpa about coarsely grinding the coffee, because fine can be too bitter.)  OK, get the new bag of coffee.  BREATHE!  I know he’s had to open it and it’s a beast to do it right.  Forgive him before you touch the bag.  OK, it’s f’ed up.  It’s okay.  BREATHE!  Trim a bit off and pour a bit in the grinder.  Fill the jar, fill the grinder, gently grind the beans.  Great, this is going smoother.  Water’s hot, smell the coffee.  This is going to be okay.

I reached for my caramel syrup, and it was gone.  😦  Grandpa strikes again.  F$%&!!!!  Can’t take it!  I was just at the ____ing store, there was enough syrup for at least a week!  Mother ____ing ____ sucking goat ____ing ($*%&W%&!!!!!!!!  Stay the F*&% away from my coffee!!!!!

I tried to be calm.  I breathed.  I faced it all, and lost it anyway.  I cried quietly while I got the cream, felt thankful that at least I had good coffee.  Grabbed a hard leftover piece of brown sugar and plunked it in my coffee, because that’s a nice treat and I was wanting sweet this morning.  Took my coffee upstairs and locked the door.

It will all be there when I feel sane enough to handle knives without frightening people.

I’m noticing all this emotion as I sit quietly and anchoring it so that I remember how helpful it is to be alone when I’m upset.  I forgive myself for getting so upset that I cried over a break in my routine like a little kid.  I forgive my son for being like me, and I forgive me for making him that way.  I allow myself to cry and release the tension.

Sheesh, I’m going to have to start keeping a tantrum log for myself.

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