The 4'10" Tyrant

This is the worst time to try to sit at the computer and write but I fear a complete collapse is imminent if I don't write, in between cleaning off DVDs, pushing on Stephen's head, and trying to figure out what in the hell I'm supposed to do with him all day.

It's only 8:53 a.m. and I already feel like I've descended into the fifth circle of hell.

I don't know WHAT is going on with this kid, but he is impossible 99% of the time lately. He used to be content with playing and watching videos and looking at books and playing with stuffed animals, and now he is a malcontent.

I am so angry.

I am so sick of not only trying to keep him calm in the evenings, but for 48 hours (well, minus sleep time) every weekend. On top of worrying about him, I worry about how upset he's making David and Kerry, and right now it's more than I can stand. Every whiny cry, every groan, every footstomping fit makes my nerves jangle into a mass. Sparks fly out at intervals and I feel like my brain is short-circuiting. But it can't because somehow I have to figure this out.

I can't find time to work on his schedule because if I pull out the materials Stephen will start picking out every location in the pictures and wanting to go there.

I hate this so much.

Just now: "Heh-shoos."

Me: "Later."

"Friesburgerdonaldshungry." It's 8:59 a.m.

"Later."

I am lost. I am so damned tired of carrying all this around, and trying to find solutions where none seem to exist.

David said last night, "How are we supposed to live this way, day after day?" I have no answers. I only know that every choice seems impossible. So if A + B = impossible, and B + C = impossible, and every other equation yields the same - then what? Picture my head flying apart like a clock that's been wound too tightly... *SPROINGGGGG*

And now, a mere TWO MINUTES after his demands, Stephen grabbed a book and happily trotted off to his room, as if nothing is amiss. I hear his delighted coos as he "reads."

But see, that's the thing. How long will it last? We all sit on high alert, not even able to find peace in the milliseconds in which it occurs. Exhaustion doesn't even begin to cover it.

I have people who have offered to talk about this, and I intend to try to take them up on their offers to listen...but right now, it's all just too much.

David's playing music now...Coldplay, "Lost." How appropo. A snippet of lyrics, "You'll be lost...every river that you try to cross....Every door you ever tried was locked." I'm in a circular room, the walls filled with doors. Each door is labeled. "Calm." "Peace." "Happiness." "Contentment." "Normalcy." "Fun." And they mock me with their gigantic, cartoonish padlocks and miles of chains holding them closed.

My brain is overrun with picture symbols as I try to figure out how to plot Stephen's life on paper, then laminate it and velcro it to a board. Will it all be for nothing? How do I use cute pictures to teach him that some DVDs will skip straight to the menu if you press that button, and some won't? Ha. And that's just one of the things that sets him off. How do I teach him with squares on a board that you don't get McDonalds at 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday? So perhaps you see the dilemmas I'm dealing with here...

Well, my breathing has returned to normal after two episodes of feeling my chest compressed like someone's sitting on it. The pain that is physical-yet-emotional has subsided, and Stephen is laughing in his room. I will mentally put one foot in front of the other. That's as adventurous as I can manage right now.

He's back at his DVD player. I cleaned the filthy disc with the bottom of my t-shirt, and we'll see if this disc works in a way that suits His Majesty, who rules with the cutest little iron fist you've ever seen. We, his jesters, his chefs, his royal guard, and I suppose I'm also his lady-in-waiting or something, will hope that things today can somehow suit His Highness and his hair-trigger temperament.

We cower and await his instructions.