Would everybody just SHUT THE FUCK UP??
…Was what I was thinking, but wouldn’t allow myself to actually scream out loud. It’s Monday, the first day of our two week break, and Moe was on his fourth – or was it fifth? – meltdown of the day, which included him coming after me, teeth bared, trying to bite me for no reason other than he was just pissed off. And Jelly, because I’m not paying attention to her, joins in, in perfect hellish harmony. So instead, I just slam the bathroom door, needing some way to fight back and hoping that the shock of the loud noise might get the kids to at least pause and take a breath. But no one seems to notice except maybe the dog, who of course I trip over because she is always right underfoot when something stressful is happening. The dog: my other “special needs” animal, who lately has added nothing but stress to my life. Every day I fantasize about letting some other family pay for her Prozac, but it’s been 7 years and what message does that send to my autistic son that when things are challenging we just kick you out of the house? So she stays.
And anyway, that’s another topic not up for discussion with my husband. The sometimes wonderful man who never missed an OB appointment when I was pregnant, makes every one of the kids’ doctor appointments, but has yet to show one fucking emotion when it comes to the fact that our kid has autism. The same man who I can’t quite forgive for calling me inconsiderate during an argument a couple weeks ago, but then comes home after a day when I was home sick with two sick kids, declares he’s “not feeling well” and goes straight to bed. So no, I don’t feel like having sex with you tonight.
Monday night I’m up at 10, 12, and 2 with Jelly, who I know is sick, but I can’t help be a little pissed off at because you know what? I’m sick too. And I feel like shit and if I don’t get some sleep I’m never going to get better. At 3am, just after Jelly is finally asleep (for good this time?), Moe is crying and we go to his room to find him butt naked – shit all over his sheets. And it would be funny if it weren’t just so depressing. My three and a half year old – still in a crib, nowhere near toilet training, but with enough dexterity to take off his clothes. He fights with superhuman strength while we wrestle a clean diaper and pajamas back on him, and then, once he is almost calm, comes after me again, grabbing my arm to bite me. And then suddenly I get it because it’s exactly what I want to say to anyone who tells me to calm down: BITE ME.
We go back to bed, tired and on edge, and it’s almost 4 in the morning and we shouldn’t even speak but we fight because I ask When is it going to end? and he tells me that doesn’t even make any sense. But it’s what I want to know: WHEN WILL IT END? When will I get my sweet little Wesley back? Because that’s his name, Wesley, not Moe, the autism blog pseudonym I made up for him a little because of anonymity but a little because it’s too painful to talk about all of these things happening with my beautiful Wesley. The boy I was supposed to have. So tell me, when do I get to have a conversation with my son? When do I get to show up to a playdate with a child who I don’t have to worry is going to run away or get hurt or spill the snacks all over the floor?
Not like we get invited to many playdates anymore, since our regular playgroup dropped us, or “changed formats” right after the diagnosis. Sure, a couple of moms have become friends, but the others were more than happy to fade away. And then there is the one who started it all, she knows who she is, and I just can’t forgive her for deserting us right when I needed her the most. But your husband flirts with me whenever we see you, so fuck you too.
And now… it’s Tuesday.