“There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”
~ Leonard Cohen
Most days I feel pretty good. I’m on top of things. I’m organized. Everyone said things would be easier once the kids got a bit older. Mostly I have a vague recollection of these being people who did not have triplets. There was a brief lull in time where I did believe that was true, and we seemed to be coasting along on a nice wave. It got tough again, then it calmed. Lots of amazing therapists helped, so did the occasional glass of wine. We rely on humor, and that gets us through quite a bit. The not so good days seemed to be drifting farther behind us. But lately it feels like the bad days are creeping back in, and time for recovery from the down side is getting squelched. Today it felt like they were taking over.
We are in the process of obtaining behavioral services for our son, and our daughter, who had intensive behavioral therapy last year, has started having more sensory and processing issues again. Last time I wrote about the noise. I missed the signs of her ramping up to this. Between then and now it has started to feel like no amount of wine or chocolate could possibly take the edge off days with multiple meltdowns, grunting and shrieking instead of talking, and endless spinning in circles to feed her vestibular system. I actually cried tonight. I felt like I was going to crack. And it takes a lot for me to get there. But here I am. Banking on humor, I allowed the corner of my mouth to lift slightly as I told my husband I am planning to willfully become an alcoholic. I am not an addictive person, and I know that isn’t funny to many people. But in that moment I was willing to trade how I felt for how the latter might feel because I was overwhelmed and wanted an escape.
I am so very grateful for my husband. We bail each other out when it gets rough, and he bailed me out. I feel like the world’s worst mother if I can’t manage a conflict between my own three year olds. But this isn't just a conflict. I try to remember that the issues are neurological and not always situational. I try to take my own deep breaths and count to 10. But when I lose it, or yell, or have to walk away, I am left with a feeling of regret that I cannot enjoy my children. It breaks my heart when I can’t find a way to reach them in the midst of their anxiety. It breaks my soul when I realize my limitations, and I feel selfish for being limited. I know it will pass, like a teacup that has broken and been repaired. But I will be tea-worthy again, ready to have more poured in. You’ll only see the crack if you look closely.
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