Thursday, 29 October 2015

The Restorative Power of Rainy Afternoons

It's a dark, blustery day outside, and I have nowhere to go. The babes are both asleep. I just talked to Mr. Level-Headed on the phone, and I have the world's largest and stickiest Sticky Bun in my hands and a rich cup of Hot Chocolate by my side. Can my day get any better? I think not. Oh, wait! Yes, it can get better. What I really need in my life at the moment is a good book, so I am asking all of you for your book requests. I know you've got them. Go! . . . .

I really needed this today; I am feeling pretty worn-out after our week of soccer finals and Halloween activities. Being a one woman show is not easy, and I have a whole new level of respect for all you single moms and dads out there. Seriously, you rock! Single parenting is INTENSE.

At the moment, Zoe, Elliot and Leif are keeping me hopping. Zoe is still sick. Her new medication did not work . . . boo! And she is onto week four of being home from school. My heart goes out to her; all she wants is to be back in school so that she can enjoy her final year of high school. Sometimes life is really unfair.

Elliot is rocking high school. Most days I don't even recognize him because he does his homework without me nagging him, and he has been actively participating in Hampton High's soccer team and basketball team. The problem, though, is that when Elliot thrives, I often forget about his quirks and when he does something that is very Elliot, I lose my mind. Like last night, I sent him and Avery out to clean out the trunk of my van so that I could take the three youngest to MCS's trunk-or-treat. We were in a rush and I will admit, I was barking and yelling out orders like a cranky, old sea captain.  Elliot finds it difficult to operate in tense situations like this one. When I came running out of the house, I smelled something strange. My nose was telling me it was suntan lotion, but my mind was saying that was foolish because it is the end of October in Canada. No one needs suntan lotion anymore. Then, as I was just about to open my door to the van, I noticed it; Someone had squirted suntan lotion ALL over Leif's window.

What is this?!

Elliot did it.


I lost my mind. I hollered and took his phone.

Get inside and we will discuss this later.

As I pulled out of the driveway, I was fuming. I could not fathom why my fourteen year old son would do this, and then it hit me: low impulse control. Right, a classic trait of people on the Autism Spectrum. It may sound strange, but I often forget that Elliot has NLD because he functions so well for the most part. Then I felt bad, really bad. So, when I finally returned home, I apologized and we talked about the incident, and then I made him clean it up. I guess I should be happy that his episodes are so few and far between that I can actually forget about his diagnosis, but I can't help but wonder how many times I have been insensitive or oblivious to his unique needs lately . . .  ugh! Being a mom is never easy.

As for Leif, he has been over-the-top difficult lately. He is nursing more than Harriet and it seems like all he does is cry and throw tantrums. I keep reminding myself that this is just the terrible two's, or he is probably working on a new cognitive skill with his birthday just around the corner and that can be difficult. I also think it could be partly due to the fact that Mr. Level-Headed is not home. I feel bad for him because at two, he did not know this was coming. He can't understand our explanations. All he know is that he misses his dad and he has no way to express that except by pitching a fit. I feel really bad for him, but still, I can't help but want to throttle him at the same time . . . eeeeek!

All I can say is thank heavens for Avery and Harriet, my happy-go-lucky babies. And thank heavens for rainy afternoons with yummy treats and two napping babies . . .  ahhh! An other hour of this and I will be ready once again to face whatever the rest of the day has in store for me. I hope . . .

Don't forget to leave me your book requests . . . pretty please. 

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