He’s doing well. Kindergarten, as far as we can tell, is a hit.

He’s still not potty trained, but I’m done stressing out about it. He’ll learn when he’s ready.

He’s doing so well that sometimes, like yesterday, I forget.

Last week, I had an evening event, so he went with his dad and sister to her gymnastics class. It’s loud and echoey in the warehouse/gym, something that triggers sensory fits and repetitive vocalizations.

So when they were going this week, I didn’t think to tell him in the morning that he would be staying home with me. I figured he’d prefer it.

WRONG.

We picked him up from school, and he was all ready to eat his dinner at gymnastics (a solution when we don’t have time to go home and eat). Problem was, we didn’t pack him anything, and time is tight on Wednesday nights. We’d have just enough time to get dropped off before they needed to head out. Definitely not enough time to pack him dinner.

We explained.

It was too late.

The loudest, most explosive fit you can imagine ensued. I thought he was going to break the front car seat, he was kicking it so hard.

When we got home, instead of getting out of the van, he ran into the back seat, still sobbing uncontrollably.

I had to drag him out by his arm and carry his nearly 60 pounds of flailing flesh into the house.

I put him in our room, his time-out spot. I left, hoping a little alone time would help, but he started banging his head, kicking at the door, absolutely beside himself. He couldn’t make it stop.

I wanted to hold him, make it go away, but I know better. At times like this, I have to wait for him to come to me.

So I sat patiently on the edge of the bed. Every few minutes I asked him if he wanted to come up.

After a while, when there were pauses in the storm, he’d look at me for a moment, considering it.

Then, suddenly, he was there, next to me. He pulled up his shirt and grabbed my hand. I made little tracks on his back, my tears falling onto his smooth, white skin.

We lay there like that for a while, him adjusting when a new spot needed rubbing, me trying to wipe my face before I got him wet and muttering, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

As well as things are going in so many ways, there’s always a slap in the face to remind me that it’s still here.

It’s not going anywhere.

Advertisements