On the complexities of relatively privileged parenting
Once, when Arie was very young and parenting him was feeling like a living hell (sorry, Arie, if you read this later so so so sorry), a friend of mine contentedly reported to me about an evening she had in which she popped corn and let her daughter stay up a little late and they snuggled and watched a movie together.
I almost punched her in the face. I am not kidding. I had to sit on my hands to prevent myself from doing it.
She hadn't worried about what disrupting the schedule would do. She hadn't worried about a food item that is subtly different in each kernel, covered in not only a slightly viscous liquid but ALSO in strange hard crystals. She hadn't worried about exposing her daughter to flashing images on a screen for two solid hours. In my world, any one of these things would have resulted in a complete meltdown that lasted for hours which damaged my possessions and hurt my body. In hers, she didn't have to think about it at all.
She did nothing wrong, telling me about her evening. But I still wanted to smash her.
This experience of mine makes me think I understand what it's like, to have a kid with special needs. But I was cheerfully oblivious to how different we all are, in my post yesterday.
For some people, parenting doesn't get better with time. It gets worse. The cancer grows. the medically fragile kid gets heavier and more frustrated. The autistic kid, who is responding very slowly to therapy if at all, becomes bigger and assaultive.
And yet I included everyone in that post.
Because I have a kid with special needs, I figured I was immune from this sort of obliviousness. I was wrong, and I am very sorry.
I feel I should warn my readers that I am still going to celebrate how much better things have gotten -- and complain about the things that are still hard. But I will stop promising you things that only apply to me and my situation. I will keep it specific.
I almost punched her in the face. I am not kidding. I had to sit on my hands to prevent myself from doing it.
She hadn't worried about what disrupting the schedule would do. She hadn't worried about a food item that is subtly different in each kernel, covered in not only a slightly viscous liquid but ALSO in strange hard crystals. She hadn't worried about exposing her daughter to flashing images on a screen for two solid hours. In my world, any one of these things would have resulted in a complete meltdown that lasted for hours which damaged my possessions and hurt my body. In hers, she didn't have to think about it at all.
She did nothing wrong, telling me about her evening. But I still wanted to smash her.
This experience of mine makes me think I understand what it's like, to have a kid with special needs. But I was cheerfully oblivious to how different we all are, in my post yesterday.
For some people, parenting doesn't get better with time. It gets worse. The cancer grows. the medically fragile kid gets heavier and more frustrated. The autistic kid, who is responding very slowly to therapy if at all, becomes bigger and assaultive.
And yet I included everyone in that post.
Because I have a kid with special needs, I figured I was immune from this sort of obliviousness. I was wrong, and I am very sorry.
I feel I should warn my readers that I am still going to celebrate how much better things have gotten -- and complain about the things that are still hard. But I will stop promising you things that only apply to me and my situation. I will keep it specific.