I'm not even ashamed of it, because cookie dough is cheaper than anti-anxiety medication.
Tonight went well (mostly), until it didn't. When it didn't, it crashed and burned in spectacular fashion--its soundtrack consisting of poorly withheld sobs (me) and hysterical, screeching cries (him).
This is one of the parts that really, really sucks, my friends.
The good days get you up on this ridiculous, addictive high, whispering words of encouragement and highlighting every accomplishment of your child's in this bright, fuzzy glow. The brighter that glow, the more it crowds out the dark aspects of this !@#$%-ing spectrum, so the easier it is for that mother!@#$% to creep up on you.
We've been coasting here, lately. Since Full Time Preschool inception, we've been in maintenance mode with Little C, for the most part--with the exception of a few social skill issues we need to work on. Big C's been more of the "problem" in our household, being FIVE, with all of the accompanying drama and fights for independence. His glaring intelligence is becoming a
I'm sad and I'm pissed and I'm feeling helpless, and it's all *Disney-Pixar-Cars-2's fault.
Last night's Facebook status:
Bought what I thought was a Cars 2 storybook at the book fair tonight, only to find out it was in fact some complicated as crap PROJECT book.
But I read the instructions like they were a freaking FAIRY TALE at bedtime.
I got away with it last night--but not this night, my friends. Big C was in timeout (again), so I seized on the opportunity for Mommy/baby boy time and we cracked that thing open. Cars 2 (not 1, mind you, Cars 2) is a bit of a perseveration right now, and (naively) I thought Yay! Play time, this will be fun.
(I KNOW, RIGHT?)
Thirty seconds in, and we had a problem.
About two minutes away from nuclear explosion
See, that little fold-out track is meant to be driven on by those little cardboard cars over there to the side.
The problem? Four sets of "interchangeable" wheels, and eight cars.
Match, meet fuse.
It started with the complex hand movements. Not flapping, per se, but his own little take on it. He shifted anxiously from foot to foot.
"Mater needs wheels, Mom," and my heart broke.
I explained (with rising desperation) that we'd need to take the wheels off of Holly, or Lightening, or Finn, or Francesco, to give Mater wheels.
I might as well have not bothered. Reasoning and rising anxiety are far from friends in this house. I tried to demonstrate, removing a set of wheels from one of those treacherous little bastards, only to set off another stick of dynamite.
Hands planted firmly on his ears, he wails helplessly, frantically. "No, no, NO!"
I remain firm, (outwardly) calm, doing everything I know is "right," but it doesn't help. I try tactic after tactic, to no avail.
His ship is sinking now.
What should have been fun, special play time for him was wrecked all to pieces by that @sshole autism. The final crash and burn comes when I throw in the towel and put up the play set for tonight, carrying him to bed for what I hope will be calm-down time. Although I know he needs the quiet, dark room to wind down out of his spiral, closing the doors on his cries feels like abandonment. My head knows that the more I try to console him, the more futile my attempts will become, and the harder this will be next time.
My heart, though...it's gonna take some more convincing.