"So, like will he be normal when he grows up?" she asks.
"Yeah...I mean some things will require some accommodations...but he'll eventually learn to cope in acceptable ways," I respond. That's my hope anyways. But, sometimes, in the thick of it, I worry.
Mornings like today. London wanted to all go grocery shopping as a family. Scott groaned.
We haven't taken him grocery shopping in at least a month. The last time we went together, he got nervous, bolted, ran OUT of the store, then luckily ran back in the other entrance, but it still took several minutes of chasing to finally catch him.
Within the past month, we've put London on several different supplements, and he's been handling things so much better. His meltdowns are shorter, he is more attentive, and a sweet, calm, well-adjusted, happy kid shines through. I was optimistic. So we went. Rookie mistake. (And yet, I'm not really a rookie. He is four after all.)
Just getting ready to leave was rough. He tried on 6/8 pairs of socks in his drawer and none of them felt right. He was very emotional about it all. Finally, we found a pair of dirty socks that were acceptable. With sandals. On the wrong feet. With plaid shorts and an un-matching Jake and the Neverland Pirates shirt. Complemented by a pair of bright blue sunglasses. Picking my battles.
We survived the first store...barely. He started to run off at the beginning, but I caught him, put him in the cart and gave him my stretchy nursing cover that he likes to wrap up in and shut out the world.
Store #2 started out okay. I let him play with toys in the toy section while Scott did the shopping, then we met up at the end. London wanted to help by handing me the groceries. Okay. As I waited for him to hand me the heavy bag of rice, I started putting other groceries on the conveyor belt. There were other people behind us and I didn't want to hold them all up.
London lost it. "I WANTED TO HAND YOU ALL THE GROCERIES!!!" I had Scott finish loading up the conveyor belt as I took a screaming and crying London away from the scene to cool down. The kid goes from 0 to 50 in seconds. Screaming. Flailing about. Punching me in the face. Pulling my hair. I found a bench by the front of the store where we sat and I tried to calm him down. "I WANTED TO HELPPP!!!!" he screamed. I asked him to take some belly-breaths to calm down so he could try again. He took two big breaths, then calmed enough to try again.
We walked back to Scott in the checkout line. I asked if London wanted to help bag groceries. When he realized that Scott was already done putting all the groceries on the conveyer belt, the screaming and crying ensued. "I WANTED TO HAND YOU ALL THE GROCERIES!!!!!"
I took him outside as he screamed, cried hysterically, punched me in the face over and over, and pulled my hair. Embarrassing. We sat on a curb outside. I worked on calming him down. "1, 2, 3..." This week in OT we talked about counting as a way to calm our anger. "4, 5, 6..." he counted along.
At that moment, Scott walked out with all the groceries and as London realized no grocery help was needed, the hysteria resumed. Screaming bloody murder, crying, picking up anything within his reach to throw at me. A hard rubber ball made contact. Somehow I managed to buckle him and get him to stay buckled. Desperate, I think I threatened to throw away his favorite treat.
The whole 15 minute drive home, London screamed a terrifying, intense battle cry, over and over again as his body writhed to rip out of his seatbelt. More crying. Kicking Scott. Then kicking my arm, as I blocked his kicks from making contact with Scott who was driving. Punching. Biting me over and over again. I tried to distract him. I tried to soothe him. I tried to be firm. And still his inexplicable rage continued.
And finally the climax. He turned and punched sweet little Bodhi in the face-who had been cowering and covering his ears this entire time in his seat. I lost it: "DON'T YOU EVER HURT YOUR LITTLE BRO...THER!" I yelled, my voice breaking into sobs. Poor little Bodhi.
Luckily at this point, we were finally pulling into the garage. London's screams melted to sobs. "Mama Hold Me." And I held him. And we laid in his bed as he returned to "normal" and Bodhi joined us. And I held them both, feeling emotionally bruised and exhausted.
"This is my life." I think about twenty times a day. Where insignificant tasks become insurmountable obstacles. And I feel so bad for him. Life is so hard for him. Where little things like the bumpy, pebble-tec bottom of a pool prevents him from wanting to swim though he's been looking forward to swimming with cousins all day, or where small noises like the unexpected jiggle of a door knob fills him with enough terror to run and hide. It's got to be so hard to live in his world.
"Normal?" I hope this isn't normal. I hope someday his world eases up on him and he can handle a simple shopping trip without a grand mal meltdown and no longer has to even think about the bumps in his socks or the "crumbs" on the pool floor.
