It’s been a battle

I’ve started running again. Mostly as an attempt to help regulate myself so I don’t yell at my family unprovoked. It may have also been due to a prod from my therapist to begin making time for myself- an area in which I am woefully lacking. What I have found, in addition to the activity quelling the anxious energy residing within my body- and giving me a spectacular outlet to stim to my music of choice- it has sprouted ideas again for writing. A pastime I have truly missed. Funny how regulation techniques for this overstimulated nervous system of mine actually works…

I must admit, the reoccurring theme for the first couple of weeks was overwhelmingly “I hate third Grade”. And, dear reader, make no mistake, I have hated it so much. Third grade has been a beast. A trial which has tested my patience. My resolve. Shaken the foundations of any belief I am a good parent. Third grade can suck it.

The initial draft that I began made a weak attempt at being constructive- artificially skewing toward a positive outlook. Wrapping a thin varnish of alacrity around my perspective to soften it. But I didn’t build this little haven for those that have made an Olympic sport of evading the harsh realities of this endeavor of parenting- this place is for reality. So I have removed said veil. Third grade can suck it.

The transition from second grade to third is not one that is subtle. It does not go gently into the night. It is brash. Jarring. More like a vault than a step. The rigors of what is expected of the child are vastly different this year- and the children are expected to rise to the occasion. Testing is more frequent and exacting. And grading. Did we really have to introduce grading on top of allll of the other increased challenges?! Of course, third grade couldn’t merely be an obstacle course of learning, it must be an American Gladiators ring.

Clearly, for two autistics who struggle to adapt to change, this has been a delightful challenge we have enjoyed immensely.

When I take a step back- now that we have turned the corner on the turbulence of the previous months- the trials this school year has brought about have held up a mirror. One I haven’t truly enjoyed looking into. Being a neurodivergent parenting a neurodivergent is brutal at times. You want the best for them. You want to ensure that they don’t experience the struggles you endured. And perhaps- at times– your empathy goes beyond the limits it should. You are not as firm in upholding the structure and boundaries they rely on you to put in place. You struggle with the realization that you have to teach them that they do, in fact, have to mask sometimes. To white knuckle through the boring stuff. Your heart breaks when you realize their self esteem is crumbling. The erosion happening so subtly that you missed the signs- at least until it becomes a hairy monster you can’t miss.

As my feet careen into pavement, pushing the static charged energy out of my limbs, I try to formulate the sentences about the process of navigating being the “mean” parent. Creating the structure which embodies both the carrot and the stick. Navigating the challenges and slowly emerging on the other side. But I have never really found the words. The reality is, I struggle with knowing in my core if I am doing the right thing as a parent. I crave the external validation of a fortune teller that will assure me that my child will depart his adolescence unscathed. That sort of reassurance doesn’t exist, unfortunately.

Luckily for me, I have procrastinated the completion of this writing enough, that a couple of weeks have passed and a meeting with my offspring’s teachers came onto the books. This may be the closest thing to that craved affirmation I longed for. The kiddo is back on the right path. His confidence is being restored, which is evident by his recommence of school work- and my lack of stress crying on my evening runs post homework. His teachers are pleased with his progress. We have course corrected before any permanent damage occurred. My relief is palpable.

I am sure this isn’t the end of the turmoil of parenthood. Especially that of an AuDHD kiddo. I would be disingenuous if I said I didn’t wish it was the final scene of difficulty on the path to getting the Moose to adulthood. I would prefer if our mutual meltdowns and overstimulation were a thing of the past. If I could somehow bestow upon him some magical understanding of the world and our neurological makeup which prevented him from navigating the utterly confusing- and oftentimes isolating-social interactions of the world outside our household. Hell, if I merely had the power to remove the self deprecating thoughts from his innocent, amazing brain- I would consider that a precious super power. I don’t. His brain still makes harsh connections about himself which reflect untruths that I must unravel with deft, gentle hands. Overstimulation can be an unpredictable beast for us both.

I know the road ahead will be fraught with challenges- both external and internal. And spontaneous ugly crying on a run will not be an unheard of phenomenon. But I also know, we won’t have to do stupid third grade again and that is a blessing. Because third grade can suck it.