Baby Einstein's "Traveling Melodies" was playing in the CD player. Same as yesterday. Same as everyday.
In the backseat, I feel a kick to my headrest and the wail of my boy. "More hal-en-dur!" He's dropped his magnetic baseball schedule - the newest comfort item - on the floor. It's out of easy reach.
I dared not strain for it. My eyes were heavy from the combination of pollen and sadness. Profound sadness. The tears were blurring my vision as they filled my eyes and created small splashes against my glasses.
He continued to wail, but I dared not stop. I needed to get him to the safety of our home.
---
It had been a good morning. I - along with some other autism mamas - had met with some people from the parks and recreation department about expanding inclusion and adaptive programs. I left that meeting much closer to my dream for Jack - adaptive baseball in our city. I was delighted. I then went to Target and bought some new shirts ($6 each!) with a gift card I had received for my birthday.
It was a good day.
After a wonderful Monday in which "Good!" was circled on Jack's day sheet (a first in many months), Jack had two days of the ambiguous "Upset" being circled. I asked if he was better today than the last. His teacher said no, that he was very upset - even with the compression vest on - and that the only thing that helped him calm down was being in the gym and jumping onto the hard floor.
Sensory, I thought. "Well, he's needed a lot of input lately to stay regulated." She agreed.
His teacher announced to the class that it was time to go have lunch, which meant that it was time for Jack and I to head on to therapy. He heard his teacher's announcement and - at the touch of my hand, which seemed to finally register my presence - he screamed as he parroted back, "Have lunch!"
He wanted to stay. I know he wants to stay.
Instead, I scooped him up and put him in the car. After all, this therapy - this private therapy outside of school - this is supposed to help, right? This is supposed to be worth the time, the driving, and the energy.
---
Jack's first session with his SLP went pretty good. At least, the screaming that I heard didn't seem that different from what I've been hearing lately. He struggles in therapy. It's hard. The screaming usually isn't prolonged.
Jack's OT came out to talk to me about toilet training. I tried to assure her that we had a handle on it as best as we could at the moment.
Actually, the conversation didn't really end up being that productive, but that's another issue for another day.
She goes back to the back rooms to transition Jack away from his SLP so that they can start his OT session. A couple of other special needs mamas join me in the waiting room and we begin to chat. That's when I hear Jack's screams begin. I continue talking, confident that - eventually - he'll calm down.
Except that he doesn't calm down. And he's escalating. The other moms can tell, too. The pitch of his cries have changed. He's crossed over into full-on meltdown mode.
I'm trying to hold it together. The look on the other moms face says it all. She feels for me in this, too. I feel a lump in my throat and that pain in my heart that us mamas know so well when we hear our babies hurting. We hurt right along with them.
I keep watching my clock on my phone to see how long this is lasting. It's almost a habit; I time his meltdowns at home, too. I do it to gauge how well we handle it. Longer meltdowns mean that I'm not doing something right. I might be talking to him too much. I might have the lighting too bright. Longer means that I need to correct something in order to help him calm down. I know that - during a meltdown - I can expect it to last about 20 minutes in an ideal scenario (a child psychologist who works with kids on the spectrum gave me that number), but it can last longer if I keep agitating him. The key, for Jack at least, is to eliminate as much stimuli as possible.
It's been 20 minutes. I hear a pause. I hear them changing rooms. His breathing is heavy. He's whimpering. He's not screaming, but I know from experience that this is still part of the meltdown. He's not over the hurdle, yet.
Sure enough, the screaming resumes. And so it goes for the session. Brief interludes of heaving and whimpering followed by the screaming. When I look at my phone and see that it is 47 minutes into his session, I begin contemplating whether or not I should just go back and volunteer to take him home. Start fresh next time, right?
Something in me stops me from acting. Perhaps it is that thought that a meltdown shouldn't be an exit strategy, but I hold back. Mercifully, he emerges a few moments later. He's still breathing very heavy. He walks up to me and buries his head in my shoulder. He needs something, but doesn't have the words for it.
I offer them up. "More rock?"
"More rock," he parrots back. I scoop him up and sway him from side to side. His breathing begins to relax. He leans against my shoulder and I bury my nose in his downy blond hair. I still hold back tears. I feel his pain.
The OT begins. "He was being very belligerent, very condescending. He just needs some discipline. He needs to know that he can't just refuse to eat anything but the bread you send for lunch. This was all behavioral."
I look at her stunned - unable to speak. The words flood through me not as words, but as a torrent of emotions. I feel like I am a dam that is threatening to burst.
"He can't just say no. He's been disobedient for everyone this week. It would have been helpful if someone had shared that with me."
I muster up enough energy to speak. "I never said that he was struggling this week because it didn't seem like anything out of the ordinary." And it didn't. It had been a pretty typical-for-Jack week.
"I had to get another OT in to help me, but we got him to eat and take food on a spoon, so all of this was just him carrying on."
I start picturing in my mind how my boy must have felt. He's screaming, no one is listening, so two adults come in and force him to comply?
"Then, he started wagging his finger in my face. You can imagine that didn't go over well."
Jack has just - and I mean only just - started pointing. Like, within the past month. It's crude and doesn't always go where he wants it to go. As she recounts this, I don't see him waving a finger in her face to scold her...he was trying to communicate. He was doing it with all of his effort in the only way he could force his body to do so. My boy's verbal communication skills are very weak, and when he has a meltdown he cannot speak. He cannot understand. He was trying to communicate, and she didn't listen.
She didn't listen. I can only imagine how heartbreaking that must be for him, not just in this situation, but daily. I can't imagine how frustrating it is to not be able to get your point across.
He was trying, and he was ignored. It hurt my heart. I wanted to speak. I so badly wanted to speak, but I couldn't make my own words come out. I felt that if I opened my mouth, the sobs would start. I couldn't do that there. Not then.
I got out, "Let's go home, Jack." I took his little baby hand in mine and walked towards the door. She called after us, "I want to get to play and have fun, Jack, but you have to do as you're told."
I couldn't force myself to meet her eye. A few other people tried to say bye to Jack, but I couldn't bring myself to prompting him to do so. It may have seemed rude, but I just didn't have the energy for niceties.
We pulled out of the parking lot before I turned up Baby Einstein and let the tears fall.
---
At home, we were rocking in his chair. As is the case after most meltdowns, his little body was drained of it's energy. He laid back limply against my chest, grasping his red SleepSack, and listening as I read "Twas The Night Before Christmas". We read this book before nap and bed time. I kid my husband that we'll be reading it straight through to next Christmas.
I don't care. Anything for a moment with my boy in my arms.
I felt myself choking the words out as I read. I had shut off the tears once we got home, but I was still suppressing them. I knew that I had to do something, but I don't know the exact road I should take.
I did know what I needed to do, right that very second.
As soon as the book was over, I planted a kiss on his soft cheek as he continued to rub his SleepSack on his face. I whispered in his ear:
"I will always love you, and I am always listening."