I'm not alone. I'm not the only mother in the world with multiple children. I'm not the only mother in the world with the majority of those children having a disability.
I am the only mother in my house who does, though.
Today is a day that I am under the weight of my children. And trust me, that feels as awful to me as it is for you to read.
There are moments as a mother in my house where I am sure that I am experiencing on a visceral level what it's like to be my son and my daughter. Moments where there is nothing but sound and movement and input and pressure and it's loud and unrelenting and pushy and pully and I'm whirling through the waves kicking and paddling in a futile attempt to keep my head above water.
The difference is that I have speech and cognition and the ability to reason. But that difference can make the scene all that more maddening and uncontrollable because my talking and thinking and rationalizing doesn't work all the time. Sometimes it just doesn't work.
I haven't yelled at my kids in so long... I can't remember the season I last yelled. I don't know if I was barefoot or boot-clad, sweating or chilled to the bone.
An unconsolable Lincoln clutching and yelling and whining and pulling demands all of my attention.
A desperate and wronged Penelope cuts a nasty gash that needs me more.
A defiant and belligerent Ruby staring me down.
Direct requests shit on.
Disregard and mayhem in the form of glitter flung far and wide and all over the dinner I was about to serve. Empty plates of mochi shoved in the face of me asking no one to eat before I could serve that now bedazzled dinner.
I fucking lost it.
I HAD TO WALK OUTSIDE AND TAKE CARE OF LINCOLN FOR FUCKSSAKE.
He only wanted me. He needed me. It had to be me.
Here's the kicker: I'm here, ripped apart and licking my wounds and I hear Penelope and Lincoln in the other room playing and talking as if nothing happened.
And I can feel the weight of Ruby's anger seeping up through the floor, because she, like me, takes much longer to go from boil to simmer to cool.
This is hard.
I am the only mother in my house who does, though.
Today is a day that I am under the weight of my children. And trust me, that feels as awful to me as it is for you to read.
There are moments as a mother in my house where I am sure that I am experiencing on a visceral level what it's like to be my son and my daughter. Moments where there is nothing but sound and movement and input and pressure and it's loud and unrelenting and pushy and pully and I'm whirling through the waves kicking and paddling in a futile attempt to keep my head above water.
The difference is that I have speech and cognition and the ability to reason. But that difference can make the scene all that more maddening and uncontrollable because my talking and thinking and rationalizing doesn't work all the time. Sometimes it just doesn't work.
I haven't yelled at my kids in so long... I can't remember the season I last yelled. I don't know if I was barefoot or boot-clad, sweating or chilled to the bone.
An unconsolable Lincoln clutching and yelling and whining and pulling demands all of my attention.
A desperate and wronged Penelope cuts a nasty gash that needs me more.
A defiant and belligerent Ruby staring me down.
Direct requests shit on.
Disregard and mayhem in the form of glitter flung far and wide and all over the dinner I was about to serve. Empty plates of mochi shoved in the face of me asking no one to eat before I could serve that now bedazzled dinner.
I fucking lost it.
I HAD TO WALK OUTSIDE AND TAKE CARE OF LINCOLN FOR FUCKSSAKE.
He only wanted me. He needed me. It had to be me.
Here's the kicker: I'm here, ripped apart and licking my wounds and I hear Penelope and Lincoln in the other room playing and talking as if nothing happened.
And I can feel the weight of Ruby's anger seeping up through the floor, because she, like me, takes much longer to go from boil to simmer to cool.
This is hard.
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