Well, that was a meltdown. A nice one, too. And it started because we wouldn’t let J wear a sock on his hand.
When, I ask myself, was the last time he wore a sock on his hand???? Five years ago.
My jaw hits the floor. Dada is pale. We are, in a word, flabbergasted.
Is this regression? Is this just him remembering? Is this the beginning of another downward spiral?
“Well, we need to ask the doctor…,” Dada starts saying, and I have to remind him that tomorrow’s appointment is just J and his mother because there’s a trip to a facility two hours from here that cannot be altered, postponed, cancelled. It’s just me and the kid who’s been confounding me all day.
I’m genuinely worried as I sit here feeling the acid reflux bubble up.
We have THREE large bandages on the hand, three small ones on the forehead. The Proloquo has told us HURT and HAPPY. What? Are we suddenly John Cougar with the Hurts So Good???? The level of stress is pretty fancy right now…it’s got raisins in it, as Dorothy Parker would say.
The theories we are floating: maybe that little amount of med is not enough med and his body, six months later, has realized it; maybe this is a splinter cell of problems that have been building up; maybe he’s bored/tired/overwhelmed/lonely.
“Well, at least you’ll be at the doctor tomorrow…,” Dada says before I interject “yes, and it’s an outpatient visit to a place where they admit people…”
My shoulders are officially stiff and hurting. My dinner is burning a hole in my esophagus. It’s going to be a long night…