Bewitched!

I am waiting with bated breath for the school bus to show up. It's almost that time and I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, my shoulders are tightening up, and my jaw is curiously tense. 

All children around the world become bewitched around 5pm.

Chill out, you might say!! What's the worst thing that can happen???

This is the time when the bewitching hour(s) begin. 

We all know what this is. 

Bewitched. When I look up the definition it mentions something about being enchanted and delighted. I'm not sure what Webster was smoking when he came up with that. Because at my house, the bewitching hours are from after school/homework hours to bedtime. And to me, this is really just the in-between time before I get my kids in the bed. Can I get an AMEN!

As you know, I love my children. They both enchant and delight me, at times. But, something about the day getting darker, the dreaded "what will we ever cook for dinner", and the mood-altering homework hour is just about enough to send ole Mama over the edge. I mean, why can't the teachers do his homework with him at school?? I mean, what am i paying for???? Oh...wait...public education.

I do have a bit of a right to be tense. Last week was a doozy. 

Wednesday morning started like it normally does: me shuffling out of bed at the crack of dawn, scowl on my face because the sun was peaking in, and Liam being as loud as he possibly could be. 

He amazes me. I have never seen anyone dash out of bed like he does. He operates in 'off' and 'on' mode. No slow fade in. And this morning was no exception.

But something has been happening lately. He has grown a bit surly the past few months. I can only describe it as edgy and disgruntled. I know! You're thinking, uh, what else is new? He has autism. No, this is different. He has taken his complaining and whining to an entirely new level of awesome-ness. I think it is something called hormones. They are beginning to surge through his veins with the force of a tidal wave.

So, there he was, yelling at the "stupid cereal box" because the cereal clearly poured itself way too much in the bowl. (How dare that cereal! Maybe it IS stupid!!!)

And, let's just say I was not on my game this morning. I was grumpy and tired and was in no mood to hear all this clatter over nothing this early in the a.m.

So, I began yelling, complaining and whining (because that's productive!). After this tactic did not exactly get us anywhere, I sent him to time out. I was thinking what a genius I was because I thought I had won this little skirmish. 

Nope. He just began hurling the whining and complaining from the chair. 

I quickly walked over to him with wagging finger saying something about being the one in charge when he decided to throw his entire FULL bowl of cereal and milk at my face. 

It was exactly like the movies. Slow-mo, with a huge thud against my jawbone and streaming milk and shredded wheat all over myself, the furniture, the floor, the walls, the chairs, the rug-everything EXCEPT Liam!

I wish our spill site was THIS clean!!

The look on his face was horror mixed with, "oh my God, what is she going to do to me!!!"

This is one of those moments when the parenting book goes out the window. The response that you want to have and the response that you need to have are two very different things. And the chasm between the two is long and wide!

I will let your imagination fill in the blanks on what I wanted to do...

But, I knew that I was going to have to de-escalate the situation, and fast! I was the adult. Not him. 

I threw my disgusting cereal-soaked clothes to the floor and showered off my hair as best as I could. I took a few deep, VERY cleansing breaths and headed in to face my opponent. I very calmly told him that he would have no more free time today and he would spend the rest of the morning cleaning up the mess he made and writing sentences until the bus came. 

Some of you may be thinking that the punishment was not enough. But, I have learned that I have to parent Liam a lot differently than my other child. Consequences have to be immediate, and the worst thing in the world to him these days is to not have free time. 

Anytime he tried to blame me for his throwing the bowl of cereal, I quickly interrupted him, and told him he was not allowed to speak unless it was directly related to cleaning up the mess he made. He mopped, and wiped, and swept. It took forever and I had to sit there and manage every second of the clean up. 

I tried not to let him see my tears, but when he did, he asked me why I was crying. I didn't know whether to maniacally laugh in his face or weep uncontrollably. I just simply said, "You know why."

The bus arrived and he set the mop and dish rags aside, gathered his books, and walked out the door like it was a normal day. 

"Bye, mom!"

I was incredulous. Even after all this time, I still can't believe he doesn't get it. I want him to SEE ME! I want him to see what he does TO ME. But, he doesn't. It doesn't register. 

I sat down and wrote an email to his team at school just to let them know the happenings of the morning. I asked his 5th grade teacher, who happens to be a male and an ex-cop, if he wouldn't mind giving Liam a little man-to-man talk about violence towards women- especially the mothering kind. He graciously agreed.

(Now this is the part of the story that reminds me to tell you parents of autism that you need a team around you.)

A few hours later I received an email back from his special ed teacher saying that he seemed upset this morning when he arrived at school. She sat him down and he told her he was "very sad." Knowing what had happened, she probed a bit further and asked if he wanted to talk about the incident. He did, and said that his male teacher, Mr. Carnes' said that "men who hit women go to jail", and that their sentence would be, "two days."

I smiled when I read that. Of course! Now, THAT was the thing that stuck out in his mind. But, I didn't care. Whatever it took was fine by me.

Mr. Carnes wrote me an email stating that they had a good talk, and that I should look for a letter from Liam when he got home. 

Once home, Liam proudly waved the white envelope and announced that he had a letter for me. 

"I'm sorry, Mama."

"Thank you, Liam. What does the note say?"

"MOM, just read it, OKAYYYY." 

**sigh**

"Dear Mom I am sorry that I threw a bowl of cereal at you and I really love you so much. Because you are my mother. The things I was sorry about was hurting you, yelling at you and being mean to you. I love you and I will never do that again. The things that you do is making me my dinner, you love on me and you snuggle with me. And you buy me surprises, you ride bikes with me. Love, Liam"

**smile**

I'm glad he stuck the part in there about buying him surprises. He's already a using a little Freudian technique. 

The Letter.

I am so grateful for a team of people that rallied around us and walked Liam through something that didn't even happen at school. They jumped in, feet first, and took the opportunity to show him what it means to be empathetic and caring.

And, I am grateful for the corner of Liam's heart that this letter was written from. I know he cares. He has to. He just doesn't always know how to show it. But, I have the proof. It's written on a white 8x11 sheet of paper. 

Even if it was scripted a little bit, those are his words. And, I'll keep riding bikes, I'll keep loving and snuggling, and making his dinners, as long as he lets me. After all, it's these little moments that make it all worth it. 


Well, sort of....