This morning, Conor came home for a visit with his senior Behavioral Therapist and a new Clinical Assistant, Jack. Sharon, his old Clinical Assistant, went to work at the prison. Guess she figured those kind of inmates are easier.
Oh, c’mon, that’s funny. Gallows humor. She really did go to work at the prison, no lie.
Polly and Jack came bearing gifts.
This is a mat, with handles. On the unit, they carry these around for patients who head bang. You place it under their head so they don't get a concussion, I guess.
This is a pair of arm guards. You put them on your arms to guard against scratches and bites. They look like little slippers, don't they?
Polly, Conor’s therapist, sent me an email a couple weeks ago with a whole catalog of items we could purchase to protect us from his behaviors. I ignored it.
If we do not have those items in my house, I will not have to use those items. Nope, don’t need them. La la la, not listening to you.
So she showed up with the stuff on her own. Hmmmm, guess we’re not the first parents she’s dealt with, ya think?
Conor’s improved greatly on the unit. He’s tantrumming less, and he’s slowly learning how to pull himself together when he can’t get what he wants or when you make demands on him. You know, typical parenting stuff… sweep the floor, fold the laundry, walk on the treadmill, no you can’t download that Lady Gaga video-that-could-be-soft-porn on your iTouch. That sort of thing.
But he still struggles to maintain control at times. And I’m struggling to come to grips with that. This is no quick fix. It’s going to be a long, hard slog. I think it’s going to be like trying to walk through thigh-high water.
You can do it, it’s possible…but it’s just not that easy.
Since I have no choice in the matter, I will pull on a pair of waders and start slogging away. But the next time Polly brings me a gift, it better be a bottle of wine.
|Here I go...|