Tear Drops in the Pool

I'm sitting here practicing my 'deep breathing' and trying not to absolutely fall apart.

One deep breath in through the nose, and slowly out of the mouth. And, again.

I am having this complete flood of negative emotions right now: sadness, anger, grief, frustration, annoyance, all gently folded in with some helplessness for good measure.

B.J. is sick with 'sinus' issues (whatever those happen to be), Chubber has a snotty nose that is perpetually dripping greenish goop, and he insists of flailing wildly while shaking his head back and forth yelling 'NO!' every time I attempt to wipe it. That combination, two 'sick' males in one household, is a powerful 1-2 punch that knocks me on my butt every time. Males, in my experience, don't do well with being 'sick.'

At any rate, tonight, B.J. had to go to the doctor, and he 'generously' took the Chub with him-- since mommy & me swim lessons were out of the question and Peanut still had her lesson to go to tonight (no way I could possibly take a 2 year old to the pool without expecting a MAJOR melt-down when he found out sister could swim but he couldn't...). That left the Peanut and myself to go to the pool for her swim lesson.

Normally, swim lessons are pretty even-keel and Peanut looks as normal as any other little girl. She splashes, slides along the edge of the pool, and obligingly kicks her legs in the water to play the splashing games that they do in her class. She looks, in a single word, typical. I cherish the moments in time where she is, for all intents and purposes, normal. Normal isn't, well, normal here. We have our share of Autistic moments, but that is 'normal' when your child is on The Spectrum. So, when swimming lessons come around, it is, for me, a joy to see my girl because I am able to catch a single little glimpse of who she really is on the inside: a beautiful, energetic, four-year-old girl. I see her as the daughter I always dreamed she would be. But, tonight wasn't to be one of those sparkling, glorious glimpses into 'typical.'

Tonight, in a nutshell was awful. Peanut was sullen, grumpy, and uncooperative. She was showing, in all its glaring, astrobright loudness her place on the Autism Spectrum. At first she wouldn't even get into the pool. After a time, and some talking, she agreed to sit on the steps and her teacher attempted to entice her further into the pool with a beautiful purple ball. It worked--temporarily. From there, the Peanut proceeded to rock back-and-forth in the water, while sitting on the steps. She receded into her own little universe further than I've seen her disappear into it in a long time (perhaps even a year or more). She shrieked and barked, dementedly in the horrible ear-drum piercingly high tone she so favors. She climbed out of the pool, and crawled around on the deck.

I tried to talk with her and tell her she could go home if she wanted to. She wouldn't have any of it. She was lost in her own oblivion. She refused to join her class, but also refused to leave. All I could do was humor her and hope that she would journey back toward earth. She eventually got into the water and started to participate in class. It was short lived. Soon after, she was back on the swim deck and began the howl and bark again while rocking back and forth, flapping her arms against her head. I have not seen her stim (self-stimulate) this badly--ever.

As I watched my daughter in horror, unable to help her to 'come down' or to come back-- I realized I could only support her in the way she needed, and that was sit patiently by as she danced through her own universe in a ballet that I did not recognize. As she was doing this I felt the mortar in the wall of bricks around my heart slowly begin to disintegrate and the walls of self-denial, or protection, or whatever you want to call them--my self-protection mechanism--came crashing down, one painful brick at a time.





It was all I could do to 'hold it together' while I watched my girl. I wanted to weep, and rage, and disappear all at once. I felt so terrible for her. She was disturbed in some way that she could not communicate to me, and I was utterly helpless.

I wanted to cry for her, but more than that I wanted to cry for me. I feel and felt so alone. I'm back to being adrift on that desolate ice floe in the middle of nowhere. Surrounded by the void that I cannot cross. I think I manage to deny my disappointment (at not having a typical child) for a long period of time, so long that I can almost forget it exists. Then, there's an event like tonight. My girl stumbles backward, and continues stumbling, until she's undeniably NOT normal. Then all the bricks around my heart, my self defense, crumble, and the vulnerable, bleeding, soft pink parts of my soul become exposed, again, and I am reduced to tears.

As another blogger put it "it isn't PC to feel this way [that you wish your child was normal], but I do." And, I do. Some days I just wish she were normal. I wish I didn't feel such shame and guilt that I don't celebrate and rejoice in having a 'special needs child', but I don't. If I could do something, anything, to make it so that she was typical I would. I imagine any parent, even those who love the fact that their child is 'special', would wave that magic wand if it appeared in front of them.

I love my little girl as much as I love life itself. I can't imagine my life without her--I wouldn't have the same life without her, nor would I want a life without her--I just wish in moments like these things could be easier. That the pink parts weren't always so raw when they get exposed. That I didn't have to find the mortar to glue everything back into place.