Because I Said So

The view from the porch where I meditated. 

The mosquitoes were quite generous 

with their biting.

We've spent the last week on "vacation" and supporting Conor while he was at sleep-away camp. A little hiatus, some time off.  Well, a little time off anyway. Enough of a break that I was able to read two really quite terrible books and get a migraine from too much sleep.

We rented a beautiful waterfront home about 10 miles away from the camp so that we could check-in every day and make sure he had his sweet potato and his protocol followed and take him on his earned community outing and see that the jock itch didn't get out of control and blah-dy blah blah.

You know, all those things we helicopter parents do.

I spent so much time preparing for camp, and then supporting him at camp, that I neglected some things on the home front.  Little things like bills and taxes and birthday gifts. And my hair.  My God, my hair is a complete and utter disaster. I look like a street woman pushing her cart.

In any case, we've declared sleep-away camp a success.  (If we say it, it must be so.)

He made a friend, a boy who loved shooting hoops in the searing 100 degree heat as much as he did.  A boy who didn't mind that Conor tackled him during a short-lived game of catch with a football.  A boy who talked Conor's ear off and hugged him in the swimming pool and held his hand as they wandered around.

We briefly adopted his 1:1, as we often do with the good ones, an affable chap from Plymouth, England, just out of university.  (He's British, so I can say "affable" and "chap" and "university." So awesome.)  We were so smitten with Ted, we had him over to the rental house on Friday and taught him how to pick Maryland blue crabs steamed with Old Bay.  Followed, of course, by a cold beer.

That's a pile of deliciousness, right there.

It was his first taste of blue crab.  "Brilliant," he said. "Delicious." See?  He's a keeper.

Conor rode a horse during a therapeutic session at a local farm. He looked right at home, tucked up in the saddle.  Poor Ted stepped in a pile of horse shit and spent some of the session trying to regain his dignity.

Don't judge.  It happens.  Everybody poops. Let's move on, then, shall we?

While Conor was busy sitting atop a pooping horse, my typical 10 year-old son (in typical 10 year-old boy fashion) wanted to do nothing but fish. He fished from the dock and he fished from the rocks and he fished some more. (He took a break one morning to play golf. Then he came back and fished.)

I had more worm guts on me than... well, I can't really think of who else would have more worm guts on them to be frank.  Green worms, on top of it. He caught a bunch of little perch, a rather spiny fish that didn't really take to our version of catch-and-release.

That's ok, though. It brought back memories of fishing with my Pop-Pop. I could gut and scale a fish by the time I was Aidan's age.  (Yeah, I got that going for me. Booya. Put that right on my resume.)

I finally taught him how to cut the worm and bait the hook himself, but I didn't dare ask him to grab the spiny fish and try to wiggle the barbed hook free.

A few fish lost their lives, but teach a man to fish and whatnot.  Circle of life and all.

So.  Conor made a friend.  He had a great 1:1. He got to ride a horse, and shoot hoops, do arts and crafts, navigate a ropes course complete with zip line, and swim in the pool.  He slept through the night and the rest of the family got some R&R.  We fished, I read, they golfed, I shopped.  We ate too much, didn't drink nearly enough, and we all survived.

Oh, but he did have a tantrum at camp.  But not until the second-to-last day.  Since he came home only one night early, I deem sleep-away camp as a success.  It is, because I said so.

Just a little something

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. 

Could.

Not.

Deal. 

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...