I’m giving out stern lectures. Beware.

Captain’s Log: 1.11.14

It was a day of mild victories (every single member of the family helped clean the church this morning— I use the term ‘help’ loosely, but the fact is we all went and did our part and there were no major vacuum-related tantrums).

It was a day of violent meltdowns (Jack attacking Charlie and me in the car, after we bought all manner of treats and crafts for his new Sunday School helpers to employ tomorrow; reason for angry attack currently unknown).

It was a day of wailing (ask Charlie about how he didn’t want to do therapy).

Even so, the day was fine. Honestly, par for the course.

Until.

I had a conversation with someone and emotionally everything became churning and turbid.

That’s when the whirring of the fan met the splat of the crap. And I wanted to pull out a big metal janitor bucket (which I don’t own, but which would come in handy for cleaning up Code Browns), upend it, stand on it, and give the world a loud lecture about the realities of my life that they are not picking up on.

You know, just yell a bunch and lay it all on the table.

I wanted to point to my teeth for emphasis while furrowing my brows as I emphatically reminded folks of the daily battles of special-needs parenting. Battles which never really end, but will always be with us in variations.

Not that anyone wants a lecture.

But I have my virtual soapbox, so step aside if you do not wish to hear this:

Your wanting our family to operate “normally,” doesn’t make us so. 

Then sweet Kirsty showed up and we went on a date. And Walter Mitty made everything right. End of rocky roller coaster day.

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