I'm a pretend hard-woman, I have always prided myself in my strength and resilience. Slow to tears quick to... broad shoulder-ness? Nothing prepared me for children. Nothing prepared me for raising a child with autism. The tears flow, the strength ebbs, the broad shoulders are narrow. So narrow.
Our superhero has autism. He's 4, strong, stronger willed & appears to be my kryptonite.
There's no easing our way into our day. The minute he's awake, so is his mind and his super power. Control. The demands come thick and fast, the meltdowns follow. The toast is too squishy, his hands are too dirty, his clothes are too scratchy, the kettle is too loud. So I rush around trying to solve problems before they become problems. Usually without a bra. Or pants.
Then there is our 2 year old Damsel. She is usually being ignored or being hurt. It's unintentional, Superhero has the louder voice, the biggest demands, the largest meltdowns, the strongest will and the highest anxiety. He's unusually strong and hurts accidentally. Sometimes not accidentally. Our poor Damsel is patient. She's joyous and cheeky, shes apparently deaf for all the listening she does. None. She enjoys eating the rubbish from the bin rather than the food I've slaved over making. She is tiny. Sometimes I forget.
My Superman makes it four in our clan. We tag team on days where one copes and the other doesn't. When I'm not, he graciously and non judgementally lifts me from my mood, my selfish brooding and reminds me it's not about being Superwoman- it's about getting through. By whatever means. Be it chicken nugget dinners for life, or ABC kids for eternity. My Superman-husband, so patient with me.
Somedays I feel like I'm failing them all and they deserve better. Other days, darker days, I wish for a different Superhero & Damsel. There's a funny saying that goes 'when you have kids your days are no longer your own', how foolish we are to think they were ours to begin with.
How humbling it is to have kryptonite.
