Today I read the post of one of my favorite blogs that reminded me of one of the reasons I wanted girls so badly. Call me sexist, but as the mother of two boys (who are both mildly autistic), my fear is first for damage to their persons, and then for the damage to my property, and often both happen at the same time. When my husband once found our (at the time) three year old firstborn, T, on top of the refridgerator, the first words out of his mouth were "don't tell your mommy." I do feel like I spend so much time and energy keeping them from killing themselves. I think mothers without boys can rarely ever relate.
The self-injuries get old fast; I think of myself as a compassionate person generally speaking, but the guilt of one incident stands out very clearly in my mind when I felt I had been put through the wringer one too many times. My firstborn had yet again run into something hard while he was sprinting forward but looking behind him. I was so irritated as I was trying to get arms full of groceries through the door while juggling to get keys out of my purse and unlock our entry, I actually yelled at him. A few minutes later he was still holding his head while sitting on the couch, and I noticed blood trickling down his hand.
One of the challenges with autism is often an inability to communicate proportion or relativity (this nearly cost him his life a couple years ago, probably something akin to refusing to carry an epi pen). It looked like a small cut on his head to me, and I debated not calling his doctor (I was tired, outings with him were always a challenge). Naturally, the pediatrician wanted me to bring him in, and ten stitches later, I conceded that perhaps I should have been a little more sympathetic when he banged his head. I do everything I can to reduce the frequency of "boy induced" boo boos, but thank god for the blessing of being able to cover them in prayer everyday.
Friday, August 22, 2008
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