Tarred. "She's just tarred." That's how we say "tired" in the deep south. My kid woke up this morning and couldn't breathe. First of all, that is freakin terrifying. My hub was all, "It's okay little guy. Just calm down. It's gonna be okay..." E was scared--eyes like saucers, trying to cry if he could catch his breath. Little ones are not/should not be familiar with that sensation. So there I am, cradling him in the cruddy, comfy rocking chair as Nick runs down to tell the bus driver that we are not going to school today. Fast forward through taking my sweetie-pie to work with me for 2 hours, an ugly doctor's appointment, buying an inhaler/ Flonase, and the general fatigue that comes with Mondays. Did I mention there are 3 days left of school and I'm slightly stressed?

Warm play-doh on the stove smells like, well, warm play-doh on the stove. Flour, salt and oil combine over low heat when you stir and stir and stir. Add some blue food coloring and or glitter and there you go. THOSE are the times I feel like a good mama. Letting a four-year-old add drops of food coloring to anything allows you the title of greatest mom on the planet, at least for 45 minutes. Most of the time though, it's a bit tougher to find those moments of maternal bliss. 3:45 on a Tuesday afternoon is tough. My little guy is tired, his mom is tired, he wants a third packet of fruit snacks. I have said, "NO" definitively, he has asked again...sigh.

Losing it "mom-style" has many layers. The 1st of these is usually done while stirring something on the stove. It's light-hearted and funny, "Well I guess those Trashies (small, plastic trash monsters of questionable origin) are gonna have to stay lost until I finish making dinner, babe...."

Stage 2 is similar to stage one, except mom is very aware that her heart is starting to pound a bit and her breaths are a little shallower (perhaps she's had a rough day at work and on top of that her jeans are feeling tight), "I can't help you find a shovel right now. For one thing, we are not outside and do not need a shovel...."

Stage 3 usually occurs outside the home--probably the check-out line after shopping: "Nope, we're not buying "Madagascar 2" at the grocery store, babe. That movie is on Netflix anyway. Sheesh. What? No, mommy doesn't care that you are "frustrated. I can show you frustrated. " Sympathetic cashier's glance.

Stage 4 involves alot of tears from both sides. My stage 4 freak outs involve immediate danger and out-right kid defiance: running in a parking lot, opening the door to a stranger, eating the damn Doritos secretly in his bed after I've told him not to touch any kind of food before dinner. Those orange fingers tell all. After a stage 4 freak out and cool down, I usually find myself hovering over his bed after he goes to sleep. Those sweet, small breaths--mouth open, tummy up, take my breath away and make me feel like a monster. Even when you know you are right, there is no redemption after, " I am about to bring a world of pain, mister!"
Happy Mother's day to me.

 

almost.

Blerg. I suck at keeping a blog. There is Play-Doh embedded in the friggin carpet, Eli ate around all the meat in the spaghetti tonight and helped me "work out" this afternoon by commenting on how big my muscles were during squats. Also, I should not buy pre-made garlic toast because I inevitably cook 4 pieces when I need to only cook 2. All these things are true. Letting almost a year go by without up-dating this thing is unforgivable. Life marches on.  School is almost out for the summah. I always hit an all-time low this time of year. My thoughts are amplified and fuzzy. My words are confusing and usually punctuated with, "What do you think, sweetheart? Are your pants REALLY on fire?" My family is pissy and tired and we need a break. Nick and I are putting way too much stock in our daily Jeopardy battle. "What is Mount Makushin?" What indeed. We have had almost an entire year at E's inclusion school--very good for the most part. I am still incredibly overwhelmed by his IEP and all the jargon that goes with it. Apparently I have to be a crazy mom in order to get all the services my son requires. I don't want to be a crazy mom. I want to be the cool mom that cruises into school in  jeans and a vintage Pink Floyd tank top to read the kids "Miss Nelson is Missing." I' m a teacher too. It's hard. Very hard. Eli's made incredible strides. I thank God everyday that he can communicate with us now. I have got to focus on those feelings and not the terrified mom ones. Maybe this summer...

Summer of 2013: Eli says, "Thank you mama, that's very nice." Sobbing mama. Elated mama. Good grief, it's been hard.

rainy night....

  Summer shines a great big 'ol light on all the stuff that scares the hell out of me. Lazy mornings of sleeping late morph into rapid screeching sessions of "why can't you just tell me?" Because I know he can tell me if he wants to--or so I think. He (my little one) has two band aids--one on each arm where he got his shots last week. He refuses to take them off. I was even terrified for him to get the shots. All of the hullabaloo about autism and who the hell knows what else created a sort chasm of irrationality in my red-head. Luckily they require innoculations to attend school. And attend school he will! After a battery of tests (I just love saying a battery of tests) we now know that he may have something called MERLD (mixed-expressive-receptive language disorder). But he also may not:) If I'm understanding correctly, MERLD, like autism, is on a spectrum. I think Eli falls somewhere in the middle. He likes to repeat himself...I think just  make sure that we're grasping the importance of what he trying to say. We grasp the importance. Really, Eli, we do. Seriously.

Second City rut....

I told my husband that we need an eradicating, bone-chilling improvizational challenge every Wednesday night.

Whoa. True crime shows kinda rock. My poor dear, dear husband must contend with a slightly warped (but she's cute) wife that could watch any SVU, CSI, ColdCase marathon happily munching on Doritoes. I would not only do it, but enjoy and relish every moment. We have come to a secret agreement that I can only watch these sorts of shows while he and E are not in the room, preferably not in the house. If you've ever seen Patton Oswalt talk about his wife's obsession with crime shows, you will sympathize with my guy's plight. I have learned how to watch these shows while simultaneously making pitying sideways glances at my husband.
"I'm so sorry, baby..."
Oooh blood samples......