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.