I went to Peyton’s class this week as the “mystery reader.” I read Where the Wild Things Are. I made his Kindergarten class roll their terrible eyes and gnash their terrible teeth, etc. Those jerks were GREAT at it. At the end of the book it says, “And Max the king of all the wild things was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all…”
(If this post is sounding familiar, it’s because I used WTWTA for another, probably better, post about autism. You can see it here. This post is just because the book was close by and I wanted to show you what a fantastic mother I am because I actually did something at my kid’s school)
Made me think about Washington. Sure, I’m here with my family and they love me best of all (except Peyton, (I had added another adjective, but it was expletive)), I guess, but I miss having a group of people know me for reals and are not afraid. Or too afraid, anyways.
I keep getting all these great ideas of how to torment Misty. But Misty doesn’t live here and Erin isn’t close enough to pick up some free turkeys off of craigslist with me. I wore my monkey suit for a Halloween party, and there was no one to jump on. No one to throw bananas at. We’ll give out Halloween candy, but the neighbors probably won’t understand that I am only kidding if I hide under a table on my porch and grab at their kids legs when they come up.We did that last year. It was a riot.
Basically, I’m a little bit “down” about the fact that I can’t torment people without getting into trouble.
Oh, and other things.
It’s remarkable how much paperwork goes into having a child or two with special needs. Every time we move and I have to get services, it’s about the same amount of paperwork as a mortgage. I don’t realize it at the time, but I think filling out the same thing over and over again kind of chips at my resolve. Writing that she has Down syndrome or that he has autism again and again. Meetings upon meetings with therapists, social workers, case workers, etc, explaining over and over again what my kids can’t do. Why they are different.
Makes it real. Makes it sad.
Sad, because I don’t get to write under diagnosis “Autism BUT he’s the most loving kid you’ll ever meet!” or “Down syndrome BUT she’s changed the very definitions of beauty, happiness and perfection for me.” Because there isn’t something to balance out the hard stuff with the good stuff. At least in the paperwork, anyways. It’s a real kill joy.
And because some days, a lot of days, there isn’t that balance in reality, either. Some days are just hard. This last week has been so exhausting that I swear the marrow in my bones has cried out for relief. Where I was at the very limit of what I could handle- and then decided to SEW. What the hell was I thinking?! That made for some scary times in the Magnusson household.
But really. It’s tough. Being a mom (with or without the ‘special’ kids) is TOUGH. Most of the time my breakdowns are over basic mother stuff- having to do the same damn thing over and over and over again and never getting anywhere. The laundry. The dishes. The piles of supersuits and dudes that never get put away. In Washington, I could balance that out- or at least get away from it- with my stupid friends. Heather would come over and clean while we told each other our secrets- the kind that force you to be friends with someone forever because they know too much. I could plot attacks on Pam or various members of the bishopric.
I miss being somewhere where I can make mischief of one kind and another and people still love me best of all.
(oh man that last sentence made me want to vomit. Vomit everywhere. Cheese. I’d vomit cheese. It’s what that sentence is like. Horrible, nasty, partially digested cheese. It’s one thing to be having a tough time, it’s quite another to make people want to puke. Or worse. I apologize. To make it up to you, why don’t you scroll down to the giveway below. Enter to win. There. We’re even.)