a long, long time ago...

When I lived in California, there was a mother I knew, more from a distance than on any kind of intimate buddy level, that was raising four-five boys on her own. She looked it. Her figure looked like she was perpetually losing weight (and not in a good way), the bags under her eyes had their own bags under them, and she had this perpetual calm about her that seemed zen until you tried talking to her. At which point, you would then realize that she was simply freaking exhausted and not really fully awake at any point of time.

Of course, this was just my shallow impression of her, put together over a handful of times of seeing her at church, the grocery store, etc. At least one of her boys had 'behavior' problems, or so I heard. This was why I'd only see her in passing, or so I assumed.

Then, one of my actual friends, whom I had spent enough time around to have an actual conversation or two with, shared with me her own experience when she happened to be dropping in on said acquaintance. She was going with the intention of sharing that month's visiting teaching message, but instead of reclining on the couch and swapping cute kid stories, my friend was literally pulled into this woman's home by her shirt tails. Before she could really get her bearings, she had a child shoved into her arms, the curt instruction to keep him with her, and that she'd be right back---- and under no conditions was she to follow her into the back room.

Long story a little shorter--- her older child had had a... well, melt down seems such a light term, but we'll go with that.... melt down, and she had three or four (the numbers are sketchy in my mind now--- I only had one at the time, and any more than that always seemed like a million more too many) to get away from said melt down child, who was throwing, biting, and otherwise presenting a danger to himself and others.

I remember sitting there and listening, and feeling sympathy for this woman. She was single and didn't have much choice except to dig in and work with what came up. It didn't occur to me that she was doing anything wrong, I just figured she had some kids in legitimate need for medication---and (this is the hitch), I thanked my lucky stars that I would never have such monster problems with my own kids----

The other day, I was telling a co-worker of mine about an upsetting melt down that my oldest put out earlier that afternoon. And when I'm done, she says... can we guess? She tells me, gosh, honey. And I thought my kids were bad! It makes me feel better, knowing someone else has it worse!

For the record, she's a friend of mine, and I got what she was saying (not like the jerk from the other night, spitting on my music!), but it still made me pause. Did I make my child sound so horrible? Or maybe you just don't think you can handle it until you're given no choice but to handle it. Of all the people in my present family, I would have thought that I'd be the one they were talking away from the kitchen knives (that's just an expression by the way--- no contact with knives... yet.), but, what do you know.... it's my kid!

I did get a number from a fellow autistic-mommy. Someone who can maybe help Adam out. We'll see. I did the hard stuff and actually left a message--- for some reason, the first step is always the hardest for me.