Last night, I was halfway through washing the dinner dishes when I started. It hurts, you know, when the warm water and the dish soap run down arms full of scratches and bites and pinches and kicks and headbangs.
I bawled and I bawled and I bawled and I bawled and I bawled. I sat down on the floor in the middle of my dirty kitchen and I bawled some more.
I cried for so long and for so hard that I know it’s why I have a migraine today, but I just couldn’t stop.
“I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANYMORE!” I screamed in my head. I didn’t scream it out loud because it’s scary enough to see your mom cry like that. I didn’t want to freak my typical kid out even more than he already is.
And all I want to do is crawl into the bottom of a bottle of wine and just drink until I feel nothing anymore. Nothing. Nada. Zippo. Zilch. Zero.
“Your face looks funny, Mom,” Aidan said to me, wringing his hands. “Are you really tired?”
“Yes, baby, I am just really tired,” I replied. He hates seeing me cry. No 9 year-old should see his mother cry like that.
It doesn’t help that I know why he had the tantrum. Today was the first day my husband and I implemented the behavioral treatment plan at home.
I don’t think Conor liked that very much.