Eff You For Not Suffering With Me

There's lots of talk of resentment in our community.  It makes sense.  We see our children struggle with something that has no known cause or cure.  We resent our NT friends for getting to take naps.  We resent ignorant people who suggest that autism can be fixed with a "good spanking."  We resent each other for suggesting that we're doing it wrong--wrong diet, wrong shots, wrong therapy.  And we resent insurance companies for refusing to cover any of the above.

We're a sensitive bunch.  So it gets even tougher when the resentment hits closer to home.  As in, it hits in our home.

My husband and I handle this pretty well.  We have a running joke.  We tell each other to fuck off.  It's nice.  If he's at home with the boys, and things aren't going so well, I might get a text that reads, "He dumped an entire box of cereal on the couch, but it's under control.  Enjoy your cocktails.  Fuck you!  Love you!"

Such fun!

Because of the nature of my husband's job, I'm more likely to send the "fuck you" texts.  He travels and has to stay overnight at least once a week.  He says it's boring, but I'm jealous.  I've never stayed in a hotel room by myself.  It seems like an extraordinary luxury.  You mean I don't have to go looking for quiet?  Quiet is already here?! 

My husband was in Boston last week for work, and I was getting the house ready for the ABA therapist.  As I was putting the cushions back on the couch (again!) I became aware of a poop smell.  I looked up to see a naked, shit-smeared boy.  He was going to need a shower pronto.  But before I could stop him, he jumped on the couch.  Now the couch was going to need cleaning, too.  I got him into the tub, and as I was soaping and scrubbing and cursing under my breath, I could hear the ding-ding of my cell phone.  A text.  I ignored it, dressed the boy, handed him over to the therapist, and went about getting the skid mark off the couch.  Ding-ding!  What now?

A picture is worth a thousand f-bombs.

I washed the turd remnants from my hands and picked up the phone.  It was a message from my husband!  His company set him up in a much nicer hotel this time!  He sent a picture!

My response:  "The boy just shit somewhere and smeared it all over himself.  Had to wash him and the couch.  Fuck you and your fancy hotel room.  xoxo"

And I was kidding.  Mostly.

But it's hard not to get resentful.  I know he'd rather be home.  I do.  I also know that I'd rather he be home, too, so I could be in a hotel room.

He's away again today.  We had a doctor's appointment with the sleep specialist and I couldn't find the paperwork.  I was in an effin' rage because my husband cleaned the kitchen and moved the papers.  Let me repeat:  My husband cleaned the kitchen, which he does every night.  He also made dinner and dealt with a serious Code Brown.  This man is the best.  He's a great husband and a great father, but I was pissed at him anyway, because he had to work.

It doesn't make any sense.

On the way to the doctor, the kids were shoving each other and whining and moaning.  The boy announced that he had to go potty and promptly began shrieking.  What the--?   I pulled over and discovered that he had loosened his shoulder belt and wrapped it around his foot.  When the seatbelt tightened, it pulled his leg up over his head like he was in traction.  He was stuck and screaming and the three of us were yanking and yelling and causing a major scene, until we eventually pulled him free, at which point he peed on the side of the road, bitching all the while.

Was I angry at the boy for messing with his seat belt?  No!  I was angry at my husband for not being there to suffer along with me.

It doesn't make any sense.

When we finally arrived at the hospital, I was so exhausted, I almost cried.  I was sorely hoping this sleep specialist could give us some answers.  I'd been up since four with the boy.  One problem, though.  The hospital screwed up.  They made our appointment with the wrong effin' doctor!  We have to go back on Thursday at 6 pm--an appointment my husband can make.

Which is what he wanted all along.

 

Whatever Keeps You Off the Front Page: "Coping" with Autism

Last summer, after a particularly rough evening involving screaming and kicking and a soupçon of fecal smearing for good measure, I grabbed a bottle of rum and went out to my kids' swingset.  I pulled out my phone and texted my best buddy, Deb.

Me:  "Dude.  I'm getting drunk on the boys' swingset."
Deb:  "Whatever keeps you off the front page."

Debbie's wise like that.

It's good advice.  I've recently become friendly with a mom whose son was just diagnosed.  She's in the "Holy Shit" phase of all of this.  She's reeling from the news and dealing with family members who are in denial.  She asked me to meet her for a drink because she mistakenly believes that I've got my shit together.  I do not have my shit together.  (The shit is smeared everywhere.  N'yuck, n'yuck.)  But talking to her got me thinking about what's keeping me from losing my ever-loving mind, at least temporarily.

So, in no particular order:

1.  Exercise.  (Don't get excited.  I'm not going to preach.)  I'm not remotely athletic, but about a year before the diagnosis, I did my first triathlon.  That gave me such a boost of confidence, that I figured I was up to any challenge--even autism.  (Granted, I had no effin' idea how hard it was going to be.)  I still race in the summer, though I don't have time to train like I used to.  But I do meet my friend Dana at kickboxing once a week.  It's very satisfying to beat the crap out of a bag for an hour, and it makes me feel badass--probably because there's nothing punching back.

Exercise is great and gets your endorphins going, but before you start thinking I'm well-adjusted, let me tell you about something I like even more:

2.  Alcohol.  I'm not being remotely ironic here.  I medicate with chardonnay.  Cheap chardonnay.

3.  Friends.  My oldest girlfriends are probably the only non-ASD parents that I can be totally open with.  They are awesome at not pitying me--probably because they know what a jerk I am.  I am awesome at not envying them--probably because I know how fucked up they really are.  (I say this will all the affection in the world.)  We don't get together nearly often enough, but even the occasional weekend at the shore is an effin' tonic for my nerves.

4.  My husband.  I know.  I'm lucky.  Though I have to say, sometimes we can't vent to each other.  There have been times that he's wanted to talk about his feelings and frustrations, and I've cut him off because I can't take in any more.  I've reached critical mass.  I'm soaking in it.   But I have a partner in this madness.  And he can cook.

5.  Downton Abbey.  At least I don't have to worry about the pressures of maintaining a castle that's been in the family for generations.  We live in a three bedroom ranch that was built in 1981.  However, it does need new windows, so in that way I can relate to Lord Grantham.

Holy crap.  What was that?  Did I mention the alcohol?  Do you see I wasn't joking?

5.  This blog.  You.  All of this wonderful networking and communication has made me feel like I'm not the only one.  Sometimes I'll read a blog or one of your comments and be amazed because someone has read my mind.  It's the best thing I've done for myself in a long time.

I think that's the key.  We have to have something for ourselves.  We can't just be ASD parents all the time.  We can be writers or artists or mediocre athletes...whatever it takes to keep us off the front page.