It is a neurodivergent parenting fact, that the minute you figure something out about what makes your kids tick, or how to help them overcome a particular challenge, they move the goalposts. Not just a few feet left or right, forward or back, but usually into a strange, new, dark dimension populated by angry hammers. An issue that you’ve been contorting yourself, trying to grasp and manage, disappear overnight, to be replaced by a new impossible that has never, ever, been an issue before and the first you know is when it whacks you upside the head.
The joys of asynchronous development. I may have mentioned it.
If you have more than one kid, they psychically coordinate so that every once in a while they all do it at the same time. (The rest of the time, only 7 of the goalposts are doing the time-warp.)
And if you’re really, REALLY lucky, you might find your own goalposts hoiking their skirts and heading for the hills at the same time.
This has been 2021 in our house, so far. Hammer, hammer, hammer.
One of the kids has taken a massive forward leap, gaining about eight years’ maturity in eight weeks. Suddenly issues that had previously produced nothing but screaming, are being calmly clarified and the kid wants both more responsibility and more autonomy for resolving them. That’s great – amazing! Wonderful! – although it does entail a lot of work for me, scrambling for opportunities and resources. (And, of course, figuring out how to manage the gap between their goals and their abilities, without sounding as though I lack faith.)
Simultaneously, anxiety has driven the other kid backwards almost as far. Every last scrap of independence has vanished. I’ve had to take over all decision-making (I mean all of it) and my presence is required every minute of the day and quite a few of the night. I am gritting my teeth and clinging to the knowledge that in the early years, wobbles this big usually often preceded a magnificent leap. Nevertheless, neither of us is enjoying the reprise.
(Coincidentally as I’m writing this I’m overhearing my son’s homeschool class on Wells’ The Time Machine, and I have to say, never mind the Jurassic, try going back to the preschool age.)
And – sigh – apparently, I’m really, REALLY lucky, because just before Christmas I discovered that I have a specific learning difficulty. I’m in the process of recalibrating everything I know about myself and my abilities. In fact I’m at a stage in my (erratic, eclectic) reading where I’m starting to wonder whether all four of us aren’t afflicted by a particular exceptionality—but that’s a story for another day.
This day all my energy’s going into taking care of myself and – between tethering the kid out in future space and holding a lifeline for the one in the past – trying to stay grounded in the now. And oh, man, that involves a lot of adult self-talk: A small cup of tea is okay; the bucket you’re tempted to drink will just burn through all your reserves by lunchtime. Skip it. Drink water. Eat salad. Order the groceries. Talk to that friend. Avocado for afternoon tea instead of cookies. Okay, and *a* cookie. Take some time to watch the chooks. (Chickens are an extremely under-rated therapy. Trust me.) Drink more water. Cook the dinner. Make the extra effort to do grain-free pasta for yourself. Spike the kids’ dinner with sedatives. Wait, not that one. Wash the dishes. Shower. Go to bed. Remind yourself that this too shall pass.
Because it does. It always, eventually, does.