There's an episode of Spongebob where Patrick becomes the marketing director for Plankton's restaurant, The Chum Bucket, after lamenting that Plankton's sign, "Chum is Metabolic Fuel" makes his "head sad." He comes up with the catchy slogan, "Chum is Fum," which drives hoards of customers away from Plankton's arch nemesis and rival Mr. Krabs at the The Krusty Krab. Plankton pushes him to come up with more slogans to divert his customers' attention away from the fact that his food is deplorable before Patrick settles on, "Fum is Chum," and turns in his resignation. As he walks away, he cites being burnt out as a reason for leaving; the back of his head literally has a hole in the back of it, singed as if from an iron.
Sometimes, that's what my brain feels like. It's like the effort of organizing my body, Punkin's life, meeting our needs, and thinking about putting one foot in front of the other while maintaining a steady level of patience is all together too much. IT BURNS MY BRAIN.
The week of Christmas Punkin didn't have school and I did. Isn't that lovely? Here's where I COULD go off track and rant about his respite provider and the program they work with being unable to properly communicate their policies, but that would take too long and my brain is already starting to smoke again. So instead I will just tell you that for months I thought I had lined up certain arrangements and then a few weeks before Christmas it all fell apart. It made me angry.
He had SCL and respite on Monday. Two different workers filled the six hour shift, during which the second worker never gave him lunch. The first worker didn't pass along the fact that there was a note on the fridge about what to give him, but I'm pretty sure most individuals over the age of 12 would think to feed a child during the day. It made me angry.
The rest of the week he stayed with Oma and Opa. Apparently he was an angel until I came home. Sometimes my son is very typical; perhaps he was angry as well.
Then Christmas happened. It was exciting, but rushed and confusing and involved traveling. This is when the food strike started. He broke down Sunday afternoon and ate watermelon and pizza. Now we've been home for a couple days, but today I tortured him with a desperately needed haircut during which he made a face such as I would make if a bird pooped on my head, and now tomorrow is more travel time, loud time, family time.
All of this has turned my son into a 47 pound magnet, and he is only attracted to me. "Hold you? Hold you? Mom? Sitta you? WHAAA!!!"
But that's not what tested me today -- perseveration did. I was trying to help my mom and all I could hear was, "Square song! Circle song! Mommy does it!" I kept telling him, "You try, you try." I must have pushed him too far because when we got back from the store, which involved many tears over being denied new markers, he asked me to draw him a square and a house. When I once again told him, "You do it," he broke down, came up behind me, shoved a marker in my face, and with tears in his eyes shouted, "DRAW HOUSE! MOMMY DOES IT!"
Okay, then. It made him angry, apparently.