Hey, if you're gonna dream, dream big I say.
|Yeah, there you go. Perfect. Probably more than 4 bedrooms, though.|
I don't want to buy a new house. The thought of moving makes me quite nauseous, if you must know the truth. Packing up thirteen years of this-n-that combined with the fact that we can't leave the city school district because of Conor's hard-won educational placement makes the idea of moving nonsensical and ridiculous and totally untenable. Preposterous, really.
And I can't leave my good friend, she plies me with wine when I'm bumming, and she lives, like, three streets over. What if my new neighborhood doesn't have a funny woman who plies me with wine every time I feel down? I mean, seriously, the new neighbors might try to give me cookies when I'm sad and I'm gluten-free. The horror, the horror.
Plus, the nationally-recognized Kennedy Krieger Institute is practically in my backyard (we have a big backyard) and people fly their kids in from all over to go there. So, you know, there's that.
I know this, I know moving would be moronic, and it wouldn't solve a damn thing. But it continues to bounce around my brain like a ping pong ball. Boing, boing, boing, boing. (Which explains why I was in therapy for three years. Magical thinking.)
It's just... I keep trying to find the answer to how to improve our situation. These tantrums that Conor has--they're like a weight that sits on our shoulders and we just can't seem to shake free of it.
|This is what it feels like each time Conor has a tantrum.|
We just can't seem to get out from under them.
Quite honestly, after a tantrum, we all--Jim, Aidan and I--walk around for days with our shoulders slouching. Quite literally.
I hate living like this, with the stress and chaos of these tantrums. And so I sit and stew. What to do, what to do. And listen, we aren't getting any younger, you know? My husband turns 55 this summer; we ain't no spring chickens. It's not going to be long before we can't handle a tantrum, physically anyway.
|My husband would probably |
agree that I'm good at writing.
At writing checks, that is.
The point is, we're doing everything we can--and he still has these tantrums. Still. (Matter of fact, he's had two just this past week.)
Behaviorist. Protocols. Routines. Schedules. Menus. Social stories. Appropriate educational placement. In-home aids. 1:1 school aids. A 36-page Individualized Education Plan complete with platinum Behavior Intervention Program. Tokens. Medications. Reinforcers and more reinforcers.
So, there you go. I have no idea what else to try. Some individuals on the spectrum have suggested the gluten-free diet but food is such a fight with Conor that I don't have the stomach for that. (Get it? Stomach? I crack myself up.)
We also did that when he was younger and, while it helped, it was not the magic bullet others have experienced. I don't know, the individuals who suggested it say it helps with the negative thoughts.
So that's it. I don't know what else to do. What do you do when there's nothing new left to do?
The quality of this video stinks, but that hair! That hair is da BOMB! I bet you he really misses it.
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