Sometimes, especially in the summertime, when the kids are off from school, I feel like I just can’t get anything done. I know that parents of typical children often say this. They feel exhausted and constantly interrupted. I know we have this in common. But I think that our experiences are a bit different.
For example, I am a blog writer, but I am also trying to finish my first draft of a book (coming soon for special needs caregivers!). I know what I want to say but I get off track when my son Kai, who is seven years old and has eight different developmental/neurological diagnoses, interrupts me every 30 seconds. This is so he can pull my hands off of the keyboard and put them in the raised position he prefers. So that when he deems the time is right, he can push hard on one of my hands forcing me to clap. Repeatedly. For SuperWhy. And then, since it’s on his tablet, he moves the video back to where we just were and we do it again. And again.
Sometimes only twenty times. At other times, three to five hundred times.
By the end of this, my hands hurt. I know that my son is making contact with me and playing with me and enjoying this time spent together. And I WANT to have this connection with him. So most of the time, I do it with him. But my work gets pushed aside and when I come back to it, it doesn’t always have the same flow. Or the same content. Or heck, any content. What was I saying?
I try to write while my son rocks wildly in his dad’s rocker recliner, which he has broken and my husband has fixed at least ten times. Sometimes he rocks so hard, he almost goes airborne. At our last house there was a dent in the wall where Kai had repeatedly slammed the chair into it. He also wildly laughs and sings or babbles to himself. And I try to block it out and write.
I also try to write when Kai wants me to get up and take him to the bedroom, where he wants me to stay… to do nothing. He just likes that I’m there. So I will try to let him in and then return to the living room to write. But then he comes and gets me. And, of course, if I bring the laptop into the bedroom to write, he wants to leave with me to go to the kitchen. Or roll around on the bed where I’m working. Or climb on top of me and push the computer to the side.
Since school has let out, Kai has gotten more physically attached to me than even his usual, which is a lot. Sometimes I feel like I have a third leg. Or arm. Or torso. This often appears when I am trying to answer a message pertaining to the blog or the book.
You can count on Kai to be quiet for a couple of hours until I need to have a business conversation by phone. The SECOND this happens, he will cry and no one will be able to figure out why. We can ask but 99% of the time, he won’t answer.
The other day I was working and Kai pulled me out of my chair to go to the kitchen cabinet. For the hundredth time, I tried to explain to him that there was nothing in the cabinet for him. It’s the one where we keep spices, medicines and, oddly, zip lock bags and wax paper and foil and stuff like that. But he insisted that I once again open it and show him the contents. And he kept gesturing to the top shelf. Mommy finally figured out, after MONTHS of repeating this activity, that Kai was seeing a teeny, tiny picture of chocolate chip cookies on the box of waxed paper. He was trying to tell me that he wanted chocolate chip cookies. So I went to the other cabinet and got him some, which, I rightly predicted, he just crumbled up into sawdust on the table. Which is why we usually eat vanilla wafers. They are harder to crumble. I later returned to the cabinet and turned the box of waxed paper so that the teeny, tiny picture of chocolate chip cookies no longer shows. I am proud of myself that it occurred to me to do this.
I was literally just interrupted before I started this sentence, but by my nine year-old, typical daughter. She wanted to jump into my lap. So, of course, I put the laptop down and she did. What followed was a very detailed conversation about spaghetti. How we like it on a plate. In a bowl. WIth cheese and sauce. Twirled on a fork. In our tummies. But then, I said, hey, let me finish this article and she said, OK, Mommy! And then kissed me and jumped up. This is how I imagine the interruptions might be with an all-typical household.
I am trying to focus. But she just left and now Kai is clapping and tapping and stimming and making sounds.
And the adult kids just walked in. And the baby granddaughter (I married a man with three kids; we have a blended family).
When I find that the interruptions begin to outweigh what I am producing, it’s time to take a break.
But I try to remember the reason why I am able to have all of these interruptions. I have a wonderful, amazing son who happens to have special needs. And an incredible, loving family who are all typical.
I am blessed. And I need to remember that as a caregiver, THIS is my job. Everything else comes second.
I was going to say something else but was just informed that the spaghetti is ready. I have no idea what I was about to say. So, I guess it’s time to stop working and eat with my family.
Wait! I was going to say… yeah, never mind. It’s gone.
Want more? I have released a book! It is written especially for you to uplift you as a caregiver, soothe you, help you navigate and, most importantly, help you to be OK. Take a look!