Today is brighter. Whew!

I’m a logical individual but when there is regression, my emotions take hold and I’m thrown back to my personal Vietnam. I’m taken back to the time when thirty-sixty minute meltdowns occurred several times a day if:

* I would walk out of a room first.

* I got my baby girl in the morning and would be met without a smile or outstretched arms, but instead pacing or rocking, that got ugly when interrupted.

* mentioning leaving the house.

* not planting my hostas in a perfect line (when she was two…TWO).

* disturbing anything that she lined up…dining room chairs, pens, books, seeds, and the list goes on.

* going into a public restroom where the sound of flushing toilets or hand blowers were just too much.

* not being able to walk around vents or fans in any public place.

And the list goes on. Even though Ellie has come miles and miles away from that place and is doing so well, my logical self is nowhere to be found when there is regression. The heart and soul of me just can’t bear to see her in that pain and I can’t bear feeling so trapped and helpless.

The nice thing is that the regression doesn’t last and neither do my flashbacks.

For whatever reason this morning, my girl was having some anxiety, in an XL. Even she wasn’t sure why. It was just one big circle of worry. She wanted to know how to go about getting medicine glasses when she gets big (prescriptions glasses). I told her about the eye doctor and, in an effort to appeal to her love of sciencey/gadgety things, explained the cool owl eyes you get to look into. This set off the big ball of stress. It might hurt so she decided when she grows up, she’s just going to get them without the looking into anything part. I could tell she was having trouble getting past it and my attempts to change the subject went unnoticed.

I was doing my best to get us both out the door for camp with this little hiccup when OUT OF THE BLUE she asks, tearfully, “Do I have to go to the doctor today?” Turns out, she actually does. Who ratted me out?! Her check-up is today, complete with a round of shots. What are the odds of that big pigeon pooping on my head today? I’m gonna say pretty good.

I can’t lie to her but try to put a positive spin on it. If she could, she would have told me what to do with my spin. Of course she’s worried about shots, but then it turns into not wanting to wear a mask (don’t know what that means) or see the doctor who gags her with the tongue depressor, and where will she sit, and so forth. Eventually, she calmed down some, but I can see that worry on her sweet little face a mile away and I feel so badly for her. I imagine trying to get her into the car this afternoon will look a lot like this.

By the way, she has to have another blood draw in a month. Let’s just keep that between us.

We are currently in minute 30 of a meltdown. The nice thing is that it’s been quite awhile. The shitty thing is that it gives me full-fledged flashbacks (which is not easy to say). The reason? And I quote, “Mommy does NOT make good dinners”. I retreated to my office to muffle the noise. Sadly, poor Ben, who hasn’t seen Ellie all day, gets to spend time with her while her head is melting. So, who’d like to come over for dinner tomorrow? I might make crap on a stick. Or, if I’m feeling up to it, macaroni and butt holes.

Our Versace, who art in Hollywood, fashion be thy name.

Thy tank tops rule, from dusk to dawn. [here, here, and here]
They make my daughter drool.

We talk about them the livelong day, my brain is gonna blow.
Our latest phase has turned to shoes that better show her toe!

She melts down at school now, in front of all to see,
All for the sake of an effing shoe, it’s getting the better of me.

Distractions from friends and teachers too, do nothing to detract.
It’s bits like this that convince me though, Aspergers makes me whacked!

Namaste. Amen. Or, if you’re up, I’ll take a whiskey on the rocks with a twist. And a flip flop in the blender. The End.

During the blood drawing yesterday, there was the screaming and terror that I expected. And, although I felt horrible that Ellie had to have this procedure at all, my mind was in the “how long is this going to occupy her thoughts beyond this three minutes” mode, for the Aspergian mind of a three-year-old is adept at staying on target with a topic until, well, the end of time.

This topic could stick around for three months, like our previous perseverating visitor, the stinging bugs. Or maybe two weeks like the pain she must have endured from the umbilical cord clip seen in her baby picture. Maybe it will be a visitor that arrives at the same time daily, like our current topic, “When I get my driver’s license, will I better understand the difference between the yellow lines, white, lines, how lanes work and how to use a clutch than I do now?”.

Wind down time from stressful events involves sitting in her bean bag chair, sipping juice from a sipper, snuggling with meeper (most prized and beloved blanket), and watching Nemo or Horton Hears a Who. So, of course after our trauma, we hunkered down. Ellie randomly paused the movie, at one point to the very picture below, and when she returned laughing, said, “HEY MOMMA! That was me a little while ago, but the shot didn’t go in my mouth.” And, that is indeed, exactly what she looked like.

I would be lying if I didn’t admit that there is a small part of me that believed attending parent training at TouchPoint Autism Services would solve all our problems. This is akin to the warped thinking I had when I thought the mere PURCHASE of Billy Blanks’ Tae Bo workout tapes would give me thighs that could crush a coconut.

I’m not opposed to hard work. Unless the Real Housewives of Somethin’ Somethin’ is on. My difficulty is with repetitive tasks. Like weeding. Once I’ve done something, I just want to check it off my to do list. Forever.

So, when Ellie revisited some previous behaviors that were of the slightly less desirable nature, like screaming for 60 solid minutes because the sprouted onion she found in the kitchen (I’m not proud. Or Betty Crocker.) wouldn’t stand upright in the towel she was using for mud in which to plant the onion, I found myself fighting the urge to have my own meltdown. I have to remember that setbacks don’t mean digression.

Santa arrived at our house last night to accommodate all of our holiday travels. Bless his heart. I am truly glad this comes but once a year. I’ve already enjoyed a bloody mary. Here’s why. One, I like them. A lot. Two, although Santa brings the holiday spirit, cheer, and above all gifts, he’s also a taker. Yes. The big guy takes. He is the remover of routine, the safe haven in which the Ellie Bean finds comfort.

Opening gifts was great. It’s what happens afterward that brings forth the ticking in my left eyelid. See, things have to be perfect. Lined up a certain way. Unencumbered by other things like a piece of fuzz or stray tissue paper. Many toys are required to remain in their packaging for an indefinite amount of time. Adults not positioned in their assigned seats are reminded to refer to the Aspergers guide for their assigned holiday scripts. Note to self: prepare several copies of script for family members we will be visiting for ten days. Yep. Ten very long days. Note to self: purchase more bloody mary ingredients.

See?! That dimple is working even when she sleeps. Wow is she a marathon crier. We’re into week two now and I’ve given up food and urinating to maximize on the possibility of three consecutive minutes of sleep. I know babies cry and I know you are not supposed to get much sleep, but how much longer does this part go on? I’ve held other newborns for extended periods of time and they were content. Truly, I’m not trying to compare, it’s just that we’ve had lots of visitors and not a single person has been able to hold her.

While I was pacing with her at 2 am, all I could think about was our old family tv. It was of the pre-remote and and pre-cable variety. If the skies weren’t perfectly clear, only two people could sit on the couch. The one in the middle had to balance a stainless steel bowl on his/her head. The person in the easy chair had to have his/her left leg over the arm and could not have anything to drink (the upward motion of the forearm jacked the signal). One person had to lie on the floor with a foot up on the side of the tv and could not use a pillow. The fifth person could sit anywhere on the floor and in any position so he/she was the runner – kleenex, blankets, snacks, pepto, whatever it took. Bathroom breaks and position shifts were only allowed during commercials.

With Ellie, I’ve walked slowly, with a lilt, and in place from side to side. I’ve swaddled. I’ve unswaddled. I’ve bounced. I’ve rocked. I’ve been singing. I’ve been quiet. I’ve used the swing. I’ve used the bassinet. I’ve driven in the car. I need everyone to gather in the family room! NOW! And take your former positions with the semi operational tv. That’s the only idea I have left!

My cutie patootie Bean has some sensory issues primarily to sudden noises over a whisper. While visiting my Grandmother today, I seated myself in my usual spot on the floor between Ellie and Grandma’s dog. Ellie took her usual position as additional appendage to the right side of my torso.

She started stroking my hair which is an indication to “stop your goddamn talking, I’m stressed”. Seconds later, the dog half-barked (you know when they don’t even really open their mouths and it’s more of a hmpf) at a leaf in the breeze on the neighbor’s patio. Four houses down. I could feel Ellie’s body become rigid. Her hands then took a firm grasp of my hair and before I could stop it, she lifted me into the air six inches by the bangs and crown (neither of which are long to begin with). I now look like a chihuahua with mange.

My worst nightmare (next to being doused with gasoline and set on fire) is coming true. It’s the end of the afternoon nap which is going out like a true-to-life Linda Blair exorcism. We returned our little urchin to bed several times today. Over the course of forty five minutes. The point at which the napping demon left Ellie’s body, we heard the following – through sonic wave, deafening, beating the door down with feet and fists, someone just stabbed me in the eardrum with a sharp pencil, fits of rage:

AAAAAaahhH! I am FREAKING OUT! [slight pause]

I GIVE UP! I GIVE UP! [slight pause]

SOMEBODY! HELP ME!

Then, the napping demon was gone. Ellie, very calmly through huge tears, simply stated, “Mama, I don’t think I’m very good at sleeping.” She then got out of bed and began playing like nothing happened. Meanwhile, I searched my closet for my black pill box hat and lace veil, black dress, sensible black pumps, and ultra-soft tissues to begin my three weeks of mourning. In lieu of flowers, please send tequila.