My biggest mistake sometimes is setting expectations waaaay too high and thereby setting myself up to be disappointed.
Both today, Joey’s actual birthday, and on Saturday, Joey’s party day, I let myself get caught up in having the perfect day. And both days, I subjected myself to a mental meltdown as a result. And it is my fault and my fault alone.
The first guests started arriving at his party on Saturday and he broke down. Started banging his head as hard as he could on the hardwood floor, flailing and arching his back…and fairly quickly it turned into an all out meltdown in the bedroom. Joe and I took turns rocking him as he wailed and hit and kept self-injuring, despite every cringe and tear from me.
Eventually, after about a half an hour, he calmed down enough for us to go out and rejoin the party and there were so many people, I don’t think anyone even knew we were gone.
One hug and simple, “all ok?” from a friend as I emerged was all it took for me to burst into tears. She ushered me back into my bedroom and hugged me, reassuring me that even typical kids melt down at parties and that it was going to be ok.
She was right. The moment passed and he did wonderfully the rest of the party.
Tonight, I came home in a great mood. I had a great day at work and was feeling really happy and excited to see my birthday boy.
My expectations were set – dinner, dessert, singing, presents…the typical birthday night.
But I forgot. Joey doesn’t know that it’s a typical birthday night. He doesn’t know about all my plans.
He knows he doesn’t want dinner, so he throws every bite prepared for him straight to the floor. He knows he wants his brownie NOW and will bang his head on the chair as hard as he can until I give it to him. And many times, I don’t think he has any idea at all why he’s feeling how he’s feeling, so he bangs his head for that reason, too.
I again, am crushed, that things aren’t going as planned.
I start to cry. Silently and to myself. Or so I think.
Next thing I know, Caleigh appears at my side, hugging me. “What’s wrong, mama?” “Nothing, honey. I’m ok, I promise.”
She hugs me tighter, but with a distinct gentleness. “Mama, it’s ok, his brain is just different than ours. Remember mom, he doesn’t know, because his brain works a little bit differently than our brains.”
Again, schooled by my daughter. Why does she get it, and I can’t?
It’s not going to be perfect. And eventually I hope to “get” that it doesn’t need to be. That perfectness doesn’t make memories. That messes and crying and laughing and changed plans can make pretty darn good memories, too.
Here, Not By Chance 