June 1, 2010 by Marj Hatzell
We’re all kinda walking on eggshells here at Chez DG. While our patio was mostly completed (still a few tweaks to do but totally useable!) and we did have a few nice gatherings, the fact of the matter is that Bugaboo is having a VERY rough time as of late. And if Bugaboo has a rough time, I have a rough time. And that means Daddy has a rough time, because Mommy is soooooo tired and irritable. And that means Bug Boy has a rough time because Mommy and Daddy are totally zonked and zapped. And that means the doggies…well, you get the idea.
Bugaboo has had a sudden upswing in behaviors. His data collection at school (and home) showed that he was mostly trending downwards as far as aggressions, self-injurious behaviors and tantrums are concerned. But this past week? Slow and steady climb upwards. And this weekend? It’s like mercury going up the thermometer. Except this one is BURNING HOT FEVER when we’re used to 98.6. You down with that? No? In other words, like a Cheetah, 0 to 60 in three seconds, my friends.It’s almost as if he’s climbing out of his skin. He’s all-stim-all-the-time lately. And then this weekend the swim club opened and he did well there and then had a meltdown when he wanted to leave because they didn’t have the food he wanted at the snack bar. And he never, ever wants to leave the swim club. We cannot drive by the swim club off-season because he’ll freak out, take off his seatbelt and try to open the door to the car. While it is moving. So we don’t drive by. But this weekend he WANTED TO LEAVE THE POOL. And then he had tantrums for the rest of the evening and bit himself silly and we went to bed and crashed. BOOM.
Then Monday (yesterday) it was more of the same. Stim City. Spent hours begging to go to the pool. Biting. Then he spent hours melting down. More biting. We tried all of the usual ways to calm him down (sprinkler, pool, swing,baths, more baths, a few more baths, favorite foods, rides on the tractor) and he was still agitated. My Sister-in-law, a massage therapist, even tried rubbing his feet and legs, his head, his back, anything to calm him. Nada. He acted as though he had bugs crawling under his skin. It was madness.
We finally got him semi-calm (slightly less biting. I lost count at thirty bites in one hour) and took him for a ride, avoiding all of his favorite places (Tough to do. It means we can’t drive by a Wawa and Delaware County Pennsylvania has almost as many Wawas as Salt Lake City has Mormon Churches). He finally drifted off to sleep around nine and we swore we weren’t taking him for another ride ever, ever again because he now weighs fifty pounds (OMG! HE GAINED WEIGHT Y’ALL!) and we’re too old to carry him in and not well-rested enough for this crap.
And just because I feel this burning desire to talk about my chest (this one’s for you, Joe) I have to give you another analogy. I cut my husband’s hair every two weeks or so. Sometimes I cut the kids’ hair but mostly they go to a kids’ haircut place because it is worth the twelve bucks for me to get a break from putting them in a headlock or tying them to a chair to cut their hair. But they don’t act that way at the kids’ hair place. Oh no. They are PERFECT ANGELS there because they get freaking dum dum taffies and sit on cartoon horses and frogs (little sh*ts). Where was I? Oh yeah. Husband. Haircut. So after Bugaboo is asleep and the sink is overflowing and I put yet another load of laundry in, the husband reminds me that I’ve put off cutting his hair for a week now and people were gonna start thinking he was Tom Selleck in Magnum, PI or something. Sans mustache. Well, with a mustache, since the husband shaves and IMMEDIATELY the hair grows back. I swear it to be true.
I swear there’s a point to all of this meaningless drivel. Honest.
So. He gets the hair stuff out. I start cutting his hair. I usually shave it and cut it dry (and I do a decent job, because I am a woman-of-all-trades and I’m totally awesome). Except I usually wear a big shirt or crappy nightgown to cover me up. Except this time I wore the lowest cut tank top I own (because it was so damn hot yesterday) and a skirt. Because I’m stoopid. And I cut his hair. Dry.
You see where this is going, right?
My chest. Low tank top. Cutting hair that is very dry. In other words, I was wearing my VS Body Ipex demi that makes my chest look like it’s pre-pregnancy (that’s PERKY and DEFYING GRAVITY for those of you not good with vocabulary). And they are ever-so-slightly padded. And the husband is HAIRY. VERY HAIRY. And his hair is like a thousand tiny needles when it is cut. There I am, a million little needles, shoved into a bra in every freaking direction. And hair down the front of my shirt, stuck to my sweaty neck, in my cleavage. ACK. I was sooooooooo itchy and I could barely get the damn haircut finished and get the damn bra off and dump baby powder down my damn shirt. Screw that, I wanted to take the bra AND shirt off and dump baby powder all over the girls and I felt like I was crawling out of my skin and was feeling stabby and wanted to throw something, break something, bite something and then I suddenly wondered…
I wonder if this is what Bugaboo feels like. He is so sensitive to everything. It’s humid, he is sweaty, he has heat rashes, he is slightly dehydrated, he has dirt and sand stuck to him from playing, he has a headache from the bright light of the sun. The noise of the fridge humming bothers him, the cold air from the A/C bothers him, the dog barks and bothers him. He is getting stabbed from about forty directions, sensory-wise. All I could think of his how MISERABLE I felt for those few minutes (well, until I got that shirt and bra off and rubbed baby powder all over, then it was all Ahhhhhh…) and how he must have felt. And my heart began to ache for him. I need to get me some magical baby powder for mah Bugaboo.