Day Two: A Walk in the Panic Park

OK.

Here we go.

It’s Friday.

How can I tell that it’s Friday (other than glancing at my phone)? 

Because I can feel that it’s Friday.

How can I feel that it’s Friday? 

Well, let’s see…

I am going into day five of round the clock care (subtracting the hour the spouse is home with just enough time to eat dinner and help with bedtime routines) of two rambunctious and riotous minors.

There’s that.

Also, I am pouring myself the 17^th cup of drip for the week and looking at 3 more before the day’s end (which is extremely ironic in and of itself considering that caffeine consumption is the LAST thing that a person with anxiety issues should be pouring into their panic prone parts, but it is also the very FIRST thing to consume in large quantities when parenthood is your manner of speaking…I digress…back to “feeling Friday”). Obscene amounts of socially acceptable liquid stimulants in the form of dark crushed up and percolated beans are pulsing through my body.

There’s that.

Also-also, my Patient-Mommy-Tank’s light just came on. I pour my aforementioned stims and sip sternly (my frown lines deepening by the second) as I see my naked toddler sprinting down the hall with her diaper in her hand and war-cry-like shrills exploding from her mouth. My 8 year old is chasing after her with hands over her ears and screaming at her to stop screaming. My mug is empty by now and I refill and begin to scream at my 8 year old to stop-screaming-at-her-sister-just-because-she-is-screaming. The patient-mommy-tank is running on fumes and will break down on the side of the Friday road at any moment.

And it’s not even 9:00 am yet.

Oh yes, Friday is here. Amidst the exhaustion and chaos that this day brings, it also begins the Friday countdown. As in, “I only have X amount of hours until Ryan is home”, which is typically and frantically followed by, “ And when he comes home, he is NEVER LEAVING AGAIN!!!

Momentarily contemplation of imprisoning the love of my life and primary bread winner under lock and key for the foreseeable future with only two tiny terrorists for cell mates is yet another indicator that 

IT

IS

FRIDAY.

Breath. 

Just Breath.

My first instinct is to stop the screaming at whatever cost, which usually boils down to allowing the TV to parent my children while I melt down on the couch in a puddle of fragile fatigue.

This will not and cannot fly anymore.

A new leaf has been turned which means that TV will be a limited privilege and reward for completed chores and/or good behavior.

OK. 

Think…No TV….screaming children…Think…Chore Bingo! 

Utilize that white board!! 

Get the kids working!!!

Empower young minds and teach valuable life skills such as laundry. Harmless enough right? 

Practice the First/Then Technique you’ve been learning about in your Autism Parenting Classes; first we do X, then we get Y. 

Good for you! This will be fun and completely harmless.

Completely. Harmless…

Until when in the midst of folding Daddy’s underwear, the 8yo asks, 

“Mom, why are there holes in the front of Daddy’s underwear?”

Breathe…keep breathing…no you did not prepare for an anatomy lesson today and yes you do feel your panic attack begin with force.

Breath. Let's try not to over think this.

My two options at this point;

Option 1: Go the Disney route and say something non-committal that is dripping in saccharine like, “Daddy’s panties are special and magical because boys have special--magical parts that are different from girls. It's magic.”

or 

Option 2: Go the frank and (for the most part) medically sound route and tell her the truth as if were no big deal; “Well, Dad is a male, and he has a penis and males use the hole in the front of their underpants for letting their penis out when they need to urinate.”

...

Maybe I could come up with a third option and just pretend she didn’t say anything, because by this time, I’m so panicky that I’m about to call up my hard working husband and yell at him for having a penis that needs an explanation!!!

Breathing...We are breathing...

OK. 

Option 2. 

Let’s go that route.

Good choice. One of the unique elements of having a child on the spectrum in life lesson situations such as these is the frequent lack of emotional connection to the question and/or zero filter which is often displayed while addressing the facts. My explanation was accepted with a nod of recognition, nonchalance and immediate one-uppance of my daughter informing me matter-of-fact-ly  that "both girls and boys poop from the same place out of their butts". Pearls of wisdom amidst the panic.

To which I hastily agreed, "Yes, they do honey. OH LOOK! Laundry’s done!!! Who wants to go to the park?!? Great, let’s pack a picnic! Tuna sandwiches? 

OK let’s GO!!!

Any diversion, even if it means getting this agoraphobic out of the house (which my new Mommy-Mantra says to do) to get us onto a new topic. 

It’s Friday. 

I’ve already had my week’s fill (my life's fill really) of potty related issues with my toddler. Giving any additional thought, consideration or explanation to the human anatomy (Particularly the urinary tract and/or the bowels) is the very LAST thing that I want.

So, off to the park we go. Completely harmless right? 

What could possibly make me anxious at the park…?

My mind only needs one second to process countless scenarios of bodily harm and/or emotional distress and/or impending death and/or doom.

We could get run over by a car.

Julia could fall off the play structure.

Grace might want to bring her scooter (oh crap, she wants to bring her scooter).

Grace is bringing her scooter!!

There could be construction near by the park with massive diesel trucks speeding in, out and about 

(oh crap, they are doing construction right next to the playground)

The engine fumes could cause my babies brain-damage.

The construction dust could cause my babies to develop sudden emphysema.

We could be bit by a rare spider and become paralyzed or die.

We could trip on the sidewalk and split our heads open and die.

We could die.

WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!

But we didn’t.

And Grace rode her scooter, pleased as punch.

And Julia climbed the structure and didn’t fall off.

And the construction workers and their engines and their work dust did not impair or impale us in the slightest.

And no one was bit by spiders.

And no one tripped.

And we even invited our amazing neighbors and had a wonderful time.

And more importantly, no one talked about penises or pee pee or poo poo for two solid hours.

And more-more importantly, I fulfilled my Mommy-Mantra for another day.

And perhaps most importantly, by the time we ate our picnic lunch, played, visited and leisurely strolled back to our apartment, there were only 5 hours until my husband came home.

Thank goodness it’s Friday.

Day One: It's a Jungle Out There

I can hear my two giggling girls bounding and bouncing down the hall to my room.

The sun is out, the birds are chirping and so are the kiddos.I stumble out of bed and smile-while-yawning as little blonde-haired-fire-balls hug my waist and my leg while demanding breakfast. The normalcy of this greeting is simultaneously grating and endearing.

Breakfast is made. More importantly, strong coffee is made.

Breakfast is consumed. More importantly, coffee is consumed.

Then comes the questions that typically begins the anxiety and panic train every single day…

“Mommy, what are we going to do today?”

I could feel it coming on and reminded myself of the pact that I made with Lynn (Gracie’s developmental psychologist); this pact is now my Mommy Mantra.

Grace needs to get out every day and experience new things.

Which means that I need to get out every day and experience new things.

Which also means that I need to get out every day and experience new things while taking care of my 8 year old with autism, my 2 year old with a “sweet energy” (or in common parenting jargon, a typical toddler death wish) and my multiple panic attacks that manifest themselves through a myriad of sights, sounds, smells, stimulus and situations. My panic attacks are, after all, equal opportunity agonies. 

Breath. 

Just Breath.

So what should we do today? 

OK, I’m an anxious person but also extremely tenacious and driven (the irony is not lost on me, I assure you) which means I tend to be the type to “rip the band aid off” (well, not off of my babies of course, but I digress) of unavoidable situations. My passion for this new direction of facing my anxiety and creating opportunities for my girls equates in my mind as  the new norm. It simply is. We will get out every day in one way or another. It is unavoidable.

OK, breathe. 

Keep breathing.

The zoo! Let’s go to the zoo. Rip that band aid off!!! Set that standard! Plus you have two free passes collecting dust in your wallet and Julia can get in for free. Plus you can invite your  loyal friends  and their kids who don’t mind your unique brand of awkward and find you somewhat charming. Plus you’ve been to the zoo with Grace before on a field trip. Plus there will be other Moms there. Other parents. Other like-minded people with their tiny humans. Surely there will be other “helicopter parents” (I hate that term by the way) there hoovering over their offspring, ready, willing and waiting to take on the random bear or lion that escapes and dares to take their child for a snack. Or cover their child if the cave holding the sea otters collapses suddenly. Or push their child out of the way of a rampaging, stampeding crash of rhinos. Or…Or…Or…

This is exactly why I don’t go to the zoo.

Yet somehow I did. We did. For two hours. 

No one was mauled, eaten or trampled.

But wait, I cannot leave the ripped band aid alone, I must also rip the stitches out without any numbing medication administered. 

Because I am an over achiever. 

Because I am stubborn. 

Because, clearly, we are all going to die.

Because, since we are probably going to meet our unfortunate end at the zoo anyway, why not add a little public transportation to the mix. The zoo exhibits will house many a furry, scaly and feathered creature as well as the panicked Stacey who wants nothing more than to curl into a ball and rock back and forth in the corner. Might as well make my agony really count for something right? So hey, let's take the Max Train from Gateway transit center (a questionable part of town)  all the way to the Washington Park Station (a meager 18 stops later). Let us then step out into a giant underground tunnel (that is bound to collapse on top of us all at any moment) and afterwards take the elevator (using rickety as an adjective for this lift and lower device would be too kind) up to the Oregon Zoo parking lot. Let's do all of this there AND back, all while (by some miracle) avoiding abduction, theft and/or being run over by the Max train after mysteriously falling onto the tracks at the worst possible moment.

This was exactly why I don’t take the Max.

Yet somehow I did. We did. And I kept breathing. 

(But not very deep because, you know, the Max)

No one was kidnapped, mugged or flattened by the Max train.

Oh Mercy.

The kids are in bed and dreaming peacefully with the condors and eagles they saw today floating around in their sweet little noggins. I, on the other hand feel like I have geared up for battle, faced the enemy head on and come out somewhat intact. I use the term somewhat very loosely. Chocolate will be consumed this night.  

I’m exhausted, but I made it.

The first adventure of many.

Ground Zero

I'm anxious. 

All the time. 

At all hours. 

For one reason or another. 

Regardless of the circumstance. 

After years of living with an intense and debilitating anxiety disorder, I've learned what works “best for me” while operating in an anxiety riddled world. 

Step One: Stay at home. Home = a “controlled environment”. The more “control”, the less anxiety.

 Step Two: Minimal activity = less likelihood of getting of becoming anxious or heaven help me, getting hurt.

 Step Three: Minimal obligation = if an activity or event becomes even remotely anxiety consuming (“remotely” meaning at least five panic attacks in an hour long period), BAIL!

The bottom line is to hide.
Hide from relationships.
Hide from potential.
Hide from life.

Hide from hope. 

I've been hiding every day for almost a decade. This reality would be barely passable if it were only me to consider. It’s not only me. I have a husband, my best friend and the most amazing man I’ve ever met who is beyond patient, understanding and supportive of my anxiety disorder and its ramifications. It's one thing to limit myself, it’s another thing to limit this remarkable man of mine, but it's something else entirely to limit my children. My two tremendous treasures who daily-hourly-minutely burst forth with energy, joy, optimism and adventure, all of which continuously seeps from their tiny, microscopic pores.

 It stops today. 

Lynn (Gracie's developmental psychologist) told Ryan and I tonight that we have two to three more years where Gracie's brain will be flexible and receptive to early intervention methods and therapies that will help her cope with her high functioning autism and sensory needs. These next 3 years are instrumental in creating prompts, norms, tools and growth that will stick with her for the rest of her life. We need to be doing everything possible to immerse her in daily opportunities towards progress and practice of living in a predominately typically-neuro-developing society. Essentially, every decision we make regarding her care, routines, education and therapies over the next few years will dictate how well she will be able to handle adolescence and adulthood with developmental disabilities. 

No pressure right. 

She should be playing outside everyday (no-brainer), getting swimming lessons (to be expected, right?), interacting in public scenarios (duh), limiting her television (ok, I get it) and many, MANY other real-life-everyday-completely-stereotypical scenarios (as well as a laundry list of non-stereotypical scenarios that involve developmental psychology appointments, IEP standards for special education immersion in the “regular” classroom, occupational therapy, sensory integration therapy, psychopharmaceutical and sleep aid regulation, potential dietary restriction…to name just a few autism parent realities) that will help her develop tools and stretch her brain before it begins to solidify during adolescence…Adolescence; Every autism parent's pending nightmare, or, in my case, one of the MILLION anxieties that prance about in my brain daily. 

The rambling paragraph directly above that I just vomited out of my stream of consciousness is but a grain of sand on the anxiety shoreline that is my mind. There is a whole ocean of possibility "out there" but I can't ever get past the sand. 

And I’ve only been referencing random sand in between my toes of anxiety pertaining to one my children; let’s not even attempt to talk about the anxieties of parenting a toddler.  

An energetic toddler. 

A headstrong toddler. 

A toddler who wriggles her tiny hand out of my clammy, sweaty, shaking panicking hand and runs away all while giggling with gleeful anarchy. 

Needless to say, the realities of living with an anxiety disorder while raising a child with autism and a toddler have brought me to limit. 

As far as I see it, I have two choices; I can “live” the way I have been “living”. Day by day growing exponentially worse and giving up on myself, my husband, my children OR I can step out in faith and begin to help myself and by extension, my husband and my children. 

It has just dawned on me that I’m not quite sure how to go about helping myself. Not encouraging but my tenacity speaks louder.

So here goes my journey. One day at a time. Figuring out what works and what doesn't. Celebrating victory and picking myself up after defeat. Reveling in the freedom that comes with confidence and facing my mistakes while learning from them. All while documenting change. 

Right now I cannot promise anything but that. 

Change. 

It’s a start.