And I know this.
Life in our household is a constant ebb and flow of love and hugs and special needs interventions and piano lessons and a family trying to make it all work. And somehow it is working. But I don’t share enough of it with people. Especially on what is supposed to be a blog about our family life.
Below, the first installment of a more honest and updated version on what is going on behind closed doors that will soon require an alarm system of some sort because Monchichi is beginning to figure out those plastic child-proof door knob covers REAL FAST.
The need to gravitate towards anything remotely shaped like a bottle or soup can is overpowering. He is like a drug addict, always needing more, and when he finally gets the perfect one, his hands shake as he tears off the wrapping. It is a stim we want to stop. Badly. I cannot tell you how tired I am of making mystery can dinners. If I forget to label something before he gets his hands on it, I’m stuck trying to make pasta sauce with jellied cranberries because I didn’t grab the tomato sauce instead. But that’s the thing. You have to just go with it. Nothing is predictable except that it’s all unpredictable. And somehow we make it work. Now, for obvious reasons, we would like to stop Monchichi from stimming on these soup cans and water bottles because society does not look too kindly on people who walk around with refried bean cans as their pets. It is awkward to look at and hard to accept and it will make him a constant target. I wish I could give people the benefit of the doubt, but let’s face it: human beings are mean and judgmental and I can’t always be right behind him kicking the crap out of anyone that dares to make fun of my monchichi. Can I? Because, God. I want to. I want to protect him from all of the stares. I want to protect him from the people that speak in fast, full, sentences and then stare blankly at him, thinking that he is a rude little boy that doesn’t know how to answer back. “HE HAS AUTISM,” I quickly and loudly offer. “HE IS NONVERBAL.” I say almost apologetically. I may as well just get on with it. “My son is not just another bratty six year old, who, unlike me, is not bored with whatever you are saying to him and purposefully ignoring your nasally voice. He is developmentally delayed and suffers from autism and epilepsy, takes way too many anti-seizure meds that should have him in a comatose state and watches Disney Pixar’s CARS way too often but I let him because I am a guilty mom who packs pudding in his lunchbox everyday and still lets him fall asleep on me even though he is quickly approaching fifty pounds and makes my lower body go numb. Have a nice day.” This is why, like clockwork, I wake up and eat carbs by the fistful at 2:00 a.m. every night.
*Note the sleek can model is my *ahem*, New Washer! Have you heard about it????!!!*
2 Replies to “Writing What I Know”
Now that was an honest post. And I loved it. Thank you.
And yet again I find myself thinking, people can be so dumb sometimes. It is really hard to ignore their rudeness when it is directed at your children.
Hang in there!!! Perhaps some day when this problem is solved you’ll miss cranberry sauce spaghetti!