The past few days have felt like this:
Here it is, people—a brief, ugly memoir of our week.
Jack got his new Man Therapist, who took him on walks, bowling, swimming, and to the museum. We felt smug and happy that we were helping Jack be active, healthy, and engaged. Yay us!
Then the weekend arrived and Jack refused to stand or walk. For three days, he has scooted or crawled everywhere, including into the ER and school.
We thought he had a broken bone maybe. Turns out he is just stiff and sore from working muscles that haven’t been worked in a long time because of behavior issues.
It’s so dumb. We get a thousand X-rays because Jack won’t walk. Jack won’t walk only because we tried to improve his mood and health with physical activity.
I’m feeling damned no matter what we try as Jack’s parents.
Jack is 145 lbs of purely dead weight. He’s impossible to move and he doesn’t want to ride in a wheelchair.
He is already an enigma wrapped in a riddle, swathed in basketball shorts. Helping an injured/hurting Jack is like driving a car that has careened off a cliff. I’m at the wheel, but gravity is driving.
Smile while you plummet downward (I think wryly, to myself). Let’s hear it for adventures.