Autism & Off-Days

Yesterday didn't start well.

My stars didn't so much align, as malign.......  probably in the waste pipe of a sewage treatment plant, as you will see.  

I took my car to the garage for a service, making sure my husband had booked a day off work to follow me down and collect me.  I organised getting my daughter to work on time.  I had a schedule prepared for Finian. I was altogether delighted with my executive prowess.  All I needed was an 80's power suit and a crown so I could rule the world.

Only to discover that I arrived at the garage a month early.

I managed to avoid breaking down in snotty tears and decided to save the situation by taking Finian shopping for new pyjamas.  My management skills restored, we headed off to Dunnes with renewed confidence.  Truth be told, I was more than a little smug that I had turned an irritating mistake into an opportunity.  Go, me.

We wandered along the pj section, and over in the next aisle a baby started crying.  Emboldened by my brilliant adaptability , I decided to seize the opportunity to teach Finian a little empathy.

"The baby is crying" I (kinda pointlessly) said.  "what does he need?"

"Turn the baby off " he suggested, a little too loudly.

The mother glowered.  I hoped she didn't have a brick in her bag.

"No"  I persisted "what would make the baby feel better?"

Finian was unmoved.  "Put the baby in the bin" he proposed decisively.  Practical, but not entirely ethical.

We grabbed some pyjamas and made a hasty exit before we could be eaten alive by a rabid mother.

Finian's mood got higher and higher until he jittered like a Wall Street hack who'd just pulled a straight 48 hour shift.  I've never done coke (and as a former ICU nurse I never will..... it's a scary drug) but I imagine his mood was similar.  His skin could barely contain him.  This was what we call his 'knife edge' mood.  There's a VERY thin line between (borderline manic) exuberance and having a fully-loaded, shit-flinging meltdown.

It was a long day.

But there was more to come.

As we left the shopping centre, I sneezed into my own mask, which was a novel experience.  Pebble dashing my face with my own saliva did not do wonders for my sense of competence.

When we got home, I realised the dog had a cut on his paw.  As I leaned forward to look at it, he expressed his gratitude by giving me a big, wet Frenchie.  Now, I don't know if you've ever had a dog's tongue in your mouth, but it made me wish I'd been born without a face.  I may have PTSD.

I was glad when the day ended.  Thankfully, Finian's mood stayed on the happy side of manic.  

Some days just belong in the bin.

for crap days (and crying babies)