I have had two posts running through my head for weeks now. One was about the twins' performance during their school show (or rather, about Violet dancing her two horses up and down the stage for the entire "pre-show" entertainment), and the other about the full disclosure I've been forced into lately about my daughter and autism and how it oddly ok it feels.
But, those posts will most likely never happen or be a small postscript eventually.
I'd much prefer to write about the idiotic choice I made today.
On our outing today, I think I might have forgotten that I have a child with autism. Momentarily.
How could I be so stupid, you ask?
I figure it's one of the following:
1. She's really doing so well. So amazingly brilliant at school, therapies, playdates; even shopping trips have been manageable lately.
2. Um, often, especially in the car, I really just think of myself as a typical mommy with two 3-year-olds in the backseat. They chatter away, we sing, eat, tell stories, etc.. In the car, there aren't a whole lot of over-stimulating things or sensory issues or opportunities to run away from me or tantrums or sections of "Tom and Jerry" that need to be fast-forwarded.
3. When two 3-year-olds ask you seven million times to go to the carnival (carnall), sometimes you just cave. Even when it's the end of a long day. Even when daddy's still at work. Even when it's the first time ever, and, truly, none of the three of you really enjoy rides or are good at the games, and you hope it will mostly be mostly about getting a funnel cake and buying a special souvenir and walking around holding hands.
I prepped them well. On our way, we had a long talk about how everyone needed to hold mama's hand the *whole* time, no matter what. And how if anyone ran from mama, we would go home right then. Ollie volunteered to 'keep an eye' on his sister (demonstrated by putting one pudgy index finger over one eye, trying to open the other); if she ran away, he would run after her and bring her back.
They totally got it.
For the first 10 minutes, it was wonderful. We were a little line of three-hand-holders, buying our tickets, looking at balloons, pointing out which rides we'd like to try. We headed to the fun house- easy enough, right? No movement, no lines, full-view of kids the whole time.
I'd love to relive the next 10 minutes (read: eternity) with you, but I feel that I blacked out.
One moment my children were handing their tickets to the bedraggled attendant, and the next thing I know, I am dripping in sweat, climbing the front wall of the "fun" house, trying to get to Violet. She's in the ball pit area. There's a long line waiting, and she refuses to budge- won't go forward (up the rock wall) or back (up the slide). Oh, and did I mention she has her huge, plastic Max the horse with her?
She is sobbing.
I use my superhuman strength and catapult myself over the wall. I grab her, she bites me, but I don't let go. I can't get her back over the wall, despite what must now be my serious Michelle Obama arms. The fiercely unsympathetic attendant tells me to climb down and he'll hand her to me.
She is still hysterical, and, in lifting her, he has managed to raise her whole dress up, exposing her Bullseye the Horse big-girl-pants.
I take her quickly, with a huge lump in my throat.
Now I've managed not only to make my daughter freak the hell out, but also humiliate her as well.
The real tantrum begins, and she is biting me over and over, thrashing around and flinging Max the horse everywhere.
She wants to go back in.
She keeps yelling "ball pit! Please!!"
The parents who were calming their kids waiting in line for the frightened little girl to get off now glare at us, concluding that Violet is not afraid; just a brat not getting her own way at the carnival. I swear I can hear the "oh"s in their realization.
Adding to our sideshow-ness is that I have to stand there, with her flipping around in my bitten-up arms, while we wait for her brother to finish the unfun house. I am the queen of cool, and a mother approaches me and ask me if there's anything she can do.
I say, "I don't know". Because I truly don't.
You know how this ends, right? Oliver comes out, happy as a clam- ready for a box of popcorn and a spin on the carousel, but it turns out that his first carnival "ride" will be his only.
I give the kind mother the remainder of my tickets, and grab Ollie's hand. I talk with him (plead with him) about Violet and promise him a cotton candy as we walk to the car.
He's not pleased, but I think he gets it.
I buy him both cotton candy and popcorn, and he carries Max and my wallet.
I feel the eyes on us, and I'd be lying if I didn't admit to wanting to give an older, childless couple the finger as they passed us.
We get to the car, and I manage the, yes, still tantruming Violet in her seat. I make my 3 and 10/12ths of a year old girl a bottle and she takes it; our special anecdote for our special girl. Oliver jumps in his seat, and I put my head on the steering wheel, but only for a moment.
As things quiet down in the backseat, I write Ben a sad, long text message and drive toward home.
Ollie pauses while eating his popcorn and says, "Hey mama- that was pretty good, huh? Sissy remembered not to run away from us!".
That, my friends, is where the tears started. Tears and smiles, of course.
Damn. That boy has perspective.
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| see how beautifully our 17 minutes at the carnival started out? |
