The reality of parenting a high needs child.  

9:30pm, my loves are asleep (as it should be), and I’m awake, securing a respite worker, setting up Respite interview appointments and distributing copies of evaluations and reports to V’s current therapists of all her most recent district evals for her next level transition. I’m not upset,  I’m not bitter, I’m not annoyed; Im just saying, this is what it takes.  On the smallest, most microscopic level,  to get it all held together, to be the parent she NEEDS. To do what it takes to meet HER needs so that she can be the best Vivienne she can be, her most functional her, be given all the help she needs to get these basic needs met, as seemingly demanding as they feel. All so that, 10, 20, 30 years from now she’s not broken because I was lazy and wanted to French parent. Because I did.  I really freaking did. I wanted to raise a self soothing,  self loathing,  weaned by 6months, distant,  stoic, non emotional,  non needy, self reliant robot that could take care of her self and do whatever the hell she was told. That’s what I, ME, wanted.  But that’s not what I got. I got the exact opposite.  And so, rather than try and break her and force her to bend to “my will “, and spank her into submission, I have chosen, we have chosen,  to meet her needs, and do whatever it takes to help her. For now it means still nursing so that she doesn’t get a feeding tube, and things like staying awake once they are asleep so I can correspond with her therapists, and caseworkers and advocate against ridiculous therapy denials,  and learn to navigate taconic DDSO. And then when I’m done with that I move on to writing reviews and product testing and searching for deals, as a way to attempt to supplement at least 0.004% of  the income lost by me not working, because lord knows we never saw THIS coming, and to get tools for viv for therapy that I wouldn’t be able to get otherwise.  And then,  after all that. I stroll through the house and make sure to hide any items that caused a meltdown today in the hopes that in the morning we at least get 20 minutes before it all goes to hell again over a color or smell or blanket on the wrong side or shoe not aligned perfectly straight.  

And the crazy part? I don’t mind. Yea, when shes kicking me in the face and head and stomach and teeth I tend to loose my shit.  But all this, all the “after hours” stuff.  I’ve got this.  This is all the cake walk of the day.  Cake walk half asleep, but still. This is the gravy, and friends, give me a spoon, because I can handle the gravy.  She’s going to be amazing!