Sundays are a recurring day of existentialism where I question everything in my life. The pattern is obvious, but how to change it isn’t.
“How can it possibly keep being this hard?” I ask myself all the time, come every single Sabbath morn. It doesn’t matter what strategies we employ or what help we seek. It is getting harder. The end.
On this most difficult day of the week, my children collectively seek to destroy me. Not Henry, he’s a helper and a hero. But everyone else is trying to kill me.
We have to talk Charlie down off a figurative cliff before church every single Sunday. Then he loses his marbles in sacrament meeting over crayons, snacks, Primary, and trying to convince us to take him home. People, autism + anxiety = a real whopper.
Truman is the loudest and most anxious Sunbeam I’ve ever known, and when Charlie starts obsessing about something, Truman quickly panics and joins in.
And then there is Jack. His Sunday behavior is wildly beyond the pale. It just is. Sundays are the day when he:
1. Throws glasses over the fence to shatter on the driveway,
2. Pours out a whole box of Teddy Grahams on the floor for the express purpose of sucking them all up in the shop vac,
3. Demands to be taken on rides in the car all afternoon long,
4. Opens the front door and runs away,
5. Pulls the pre-lit Christmas tree down from the top shelf in the garage to drag it around the dusty garage and plug it in,
6. Has frequent, angry time-outs in his room to curb the violence and destruction,
7. Shreds plastic packaging and sprinkles it around the house, and
8. Vacuums up a plate of spaghetti, making the vacuum smell like hot death.
But, you guys, this post isn’t intended as a martyrdom treatise. It isn’t a cry for help. It’s more of an uncontrollable scream of righteous indignation, followed with an exhausted whimper.
As parents, Dutch/Jeff and I are the cushions absorbing the painful jolts and blunt force trauma of living with people who have disabilities. We are the ambassadors standing between our special-needs kids and the world. We are the connecting cables, the adapters, the converters that must problem-solve our tushes off to make our kids and the world interface productively.
And Sundays are the absolute worst.