How many ways can I say “I don’t know where your yellow and green shovel is because you buried it at the beach last week and lost it.”
How many ways can I say “What did you think would happen when you dropped your puzzle piece in the crack between the patio squares? Did you really think I’d be able to fish it out?”
How many mornings will I be dragging my screaming, crying child down to the school bus, hoisting his kicking, twisting body up the steps?
There are days when it’s really hard to stay hopeful.
When I feel like I’d be totally justified for leaving my kid at the park and heading home alone. When I feel like nobody could blame me for giving up. When I actually allow myself to ponder the big What If.
What If I had a typical kid? What If we just didn’t have to deal with this crap?
I count the hours til bedtime, watch a funny movie, and hope that tomorrow morning will be better.
And then I drag my screaming, crying child down to the school bus again.