the trenches, part 963.

I must hear this 80 times a week: “Oh my gosh you’re such a good mom! You’re super mom! You’re amazing!”

And you would think that at this point a part of me would start to believe it—except for this one little thing: I am horrible at this.

I’m horrible at being patient, being organized, attentive, selfless, responsive vs reactionary, intentional vs sporadic. Mindful vs oblivious. Diligent vs lazy.

I love these kids but I don’t always like being a mom. I absolutely do not always like it, in fact, I’m really struggling with how isolated and overwhelmed I feel almost every day. The mental load is taking a huge toll on me in every way. I’m cracking—crumbling a little even—under the pressure.

I feel like there are very few people in my circle who can come close to understanding. Who among my friends has six kids at home? Who among my friends is scrambling to keep up with high school mood swings and sports schedules and the elementary school machine and two preschool-aged Wreck It Ralphs all at once? Who among them has a child at a level 3 on the ASD scale? I feel so disconnected lately, as if I live on another planet, a planet none of my friends could even pretend to understand.

Honestly guys let me just get this out. I didn’t know this before but I know it now: children with autism are a whole different ballgame. I can say without a doubt that I would be killing it had Duncan been a neurotypical child—KILLING IT, I tell you—six kids and all. Cake walk. Moms everywhere, hear me: you got this. You really do.

But autism. Man, it is testing me. It is pushing me and pulling me and dragging me and beating me down and lifting me back up and building me and challenging me and growing me in ways that I would never have experienced without it.

I’m gonna be real open—yes, Duncan is beyond precious and he’s making progress left and right. He has so many strengths and interests, and he is smart.

But the sleep issues; the meltdowns (somedays they are nonstop, others only one or two small ones.), the self-injurious behaviors like whamming his head into the concrete floor over and over, the compulsion to bolt, the obsession with water and the complete disregard for personal safety. The running. The constant tugging on me instead of using words to ask for things.

The screaming, the screaming, the screaming. It’s more than I can bear.

There’s so many things I’m learning we can’t do: ball games (especially with bleachers or fields near roads or parking lots) are 10,000% out of the question. Crowds. Chaotic or overstimulating places or activities. Church sometimes even. Public restrooms (he flips out over echoing loud noises). Places where he’s expected to be quiet or still. Friends’ houses. Traveling for very long.

I am tapped out. Tapped out of everything for anyone outside this home. I have nothing left for friends or acquaintances; I can’t even muster a smile for grocery store cashiers anymore.

The screaming. My heart rate skyrockets and my head pounds. My mouth goes dry and I feel like throwing up. I can’t hear. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I want to run away, or punch a hole through a wall. The thought of teaching other peoples’ kids in Sunday school or babysitting sends me smooth into a panic attack. The thought of another whole day of screaming followed by the next day and then next day and the days after that…it’s…there are no words for it.

Somedays are really good. When he wakes up not screaming, I know we at least have a shot. Today we had a shot. I made it to 12:30 before I broke down sobbing.

A part of me is a little bitter. “God, it was supposed to be easier by now. The hard newborn stage is over and even the toddler stage is over. What is this?” I ask, I ask it all the time. 26+ years in parenting littles got me worn down but it’s this one, this particular year, that’s going to do me in.

A part of me is mad jealous of the people who have their family close by to help with their children. I wish wish wish so much that my kids could have their grandparents and aunts and uncles to fill in where mom is failing. This is worst, most hardest year in the 18 years we’ve lived in Oklahoma that I’ve battled homesickness this intense. I am so lonely for my parents and sisters I could die.

I’ve whittled down the activities I’m involved in and the projects I take on down to nothing. I have stopped volunteering, painting, writing, running, walking. I have nothing going on except the all encompassing job of whatever I am now, which I estimate to be 95% parenting, 3% cooking and cleaning, and 2% wife-ing.

I feel sick to my stomach with worry. Worry about Duncan, worry about neglecting the others while I worry about Duncan; worry about neglecting my marriage while I worry about neglecting the others while I worry about Duncan; worry about myself because there’s just no time for self-care or basic care or any care. There’s just no time.

(*insert humongous breath of air*)

Some of the things, though, that I’ve figured out we CAN do: Hike. This could be a Godsend for us (especially in cooler weather) since we have chosen not to put the littles in organized sports—family hiking trips and maybe one day, bike rides, might take the place of baseball/softball as our family “thing”. Short grocery shopping trips (Duncan loves this.) Visit trusted friends who fully love and accept our entire family, friends who come to our house knowing we can’t always get out. Bike and run and play here at home. Go for little country drives listening to our favorite music. Movie nights. Duncan loves the water, so my next idea is a trip to the lake.

I read somewhere that God gives us opportunities to learn what we’ve asked for. I always thought He would make me brave and strong and Godly and patient and loving and sensitive to the needs of the people around me by way of a mission trip, or nonprofit organization, or a job where I help people outside of my family. Something that felt “bigger” or “more” than myself. It’s safe to assume at this point that God has me exactly where I’m meant to be, and that this is my mission field—this living room actually— and these kids. This boy. The nonstop learning and rolling with punches. The hard parts and the good parts. They’re all being used to by God to make me better.

I would prefer a little less noise though, God, but it’s whatever.