Sunday was a rough day. It was a huge battle keeping my celebratory spirit. If you read my Nov. 12th entry, you probably picked up on that. Killing my mood includes the election results and the fallout from that, the development doom around me, a lack of understanding within my community, writer problems, financial woes, and chief among them — #LifewithAutism and its resulting family drama. That last of this, not the least among them.
Regardless, I tried to make the best of it, seeking out that joy and celebrating my 50 years in a month-long focus.
Hubby and I slept until sunrise, the ducks quaking us awake to feed them and let them out of their nighttime protected enclosure. Then we had coffee and I made us homemade breakfast sandwiches (No. 10). Then we both got ready to head down to Seattle to do some late-season crabbing in Shilshole Bay (No. 18). It was cold, windy, and raining off and on. It was very much a day that everyone knows the Pacific Northwest, especially Seattle, to be.
Honestly when we get a lot of productive sunny days in a row, I crave weather like we had on Saturday. However, I could have done without the wet yesterday, even if being at the sea was rejuvenating to a degree. The crabs clearly didn’t like it too much either, and I can see why they are closing the season in the Puget Sound early. There wasn’t much to catch. Not like at the height of summer. We came away with just one red rock, which will be used with our summer harvest that sits in the freezer to make crab cakes to go along with our NonTraditional Thanksgiving meal. Also we nearly lost one of our ring traps. Blessings to the boater that helped untangle it off its catch and get it back to us.
We came home chilled to the bone and ready to hang at home with my hubby’s dad (No. 4), our youngest son (No. 2), the dogs (No. 3), and the Seahawks. But we had to run to the store first to pick up some missing ingredients for our Sunday Dinner. At the store we got news that #LifewithAutism was ratcheting up the drama. It put a damper on most of the evening. There is no cure for Autism and much of what we deal with both within ourselves and outside our home is that everyone just keeps expecting our Autistic son to stop being Autistic. Add in co-existing conditions, and we just have a recipe for living, breathing disaster in one person. It’s sad. It makes me sound like martyr and unendingly negative. But, it is the burden that I bare, with little or no outlet. No matter what I do to help this kid, I’m wrong. We’re trying to find independent living for him, but no such program exists that would allow him to do so successfully, because he would need supervised living arrangements, as well as sheltered employment to do so. However, my son remaining in our home is not a healthy option for anyone, him included. But what the alternative is remains unclear and looking more and more like there is much pain ahead for all of us. That’s all I can write about that currently, but it weighs heavy on my heart and soul and is a huge killjoy for my 50th month as well as dampening spirits as we enter the year-end holiday time.
Regardless, Sunday evening we ate heartily — steaks, broccoli, and baked potatoes for my father-in-law and son (potatoes are a no-no on the #nosugarlife diet). We watched the Seahawks beat the Patriots, which was a huge upset, as none of the pundits believed the ‘Hawks could be competitive. Never underestimate the underdog, yes?
Then I took a very, very long hot shower and retried to my room to read (No. 7). The clouds in my head and outside never went away, so we didn’t get to see the super moon and Poultryville is full of puddles right now. The ducks love it, the chickens, not so much.
On 13th day of my month-long half-century birthday month journey, I learned that being a Mother is still the job that gives me the greatest joy (and partially great because it seems those moments are so few) and the greatest grief. I’m hardly the first mother to recognize this, but I’ve also held that no one ever enters parenthood with a clear understanding of what it means — kind of like how Donald Trump looked when meeting with the president and then asking his advisors if he could still live at Trump Tower and wake up in his own bed. Um, no, parenthood, much like being the president of the free world, requires that your life change dramatically and it keeps changing, even if all you want to do is just curl up in your bed and hide away from it. You never really “rock” being a parent. You have moments when you have it all together and then more moments when you’re a hot mess at best. There’s no instruction manual because every kid is different. What works to assist one child to success rarely works with the other. Clearly your mileage may vary. If things have been easier for you as a parent, count your blessings. Me, all I can count are the few ways I haven’t screwed up. So, at 50 years old, and more than 20 years of parenting, I know nothing about successful parenting. At least, that is how I feel today.
Also, I learned that I can still lose my cool. I lost my cool on the dock today when I thought my husband’s foolishness almost lost us a kind of expensive piece of equipment. I’m not sure that anyone but him realized I was upset, but it’s been awhile since I’ve lost my cool like that out in public. The walls of my house may be another thing, but this is a sanctuary (as much as I try to keep it that way — gives side eye to development doom and #LifewithAutism). On the ride home I held my husband’s hand and let him know I was sorry for losing my cool over something he did accidentally, which ended up being nothing in the end. But it made me evaluate if I’m faced with other situations in public, I’m going to have to bear down and keep it together. I’ve done it in the past and being older is no excuse to lose my bearing.
Monday looms large and I’m hoping it gives me a renewed sense of celebration. For now, I tuck in with the Sunday blues.