The clock is ticking down to a date I've had on my calendar for two months...a date that I've been both dreading and impatiently looking forward to. October 16th will be P's first appointment with a psychologist.
I have not been batting a thousand in life in general lately. My house is a mess. I'm supposed to make some decisions about changing up my living room, but I'm just as mired down as ever. I had parent teacher conferences this week and I think I'm on rocky terms with one of my kids' teachers. Work...let's not even talk about that. And, of course, on the family front, nothing screams "awesome parenting" like your child needing to see a therapist before puberty.
I've been on the other side of this equation so many times, I know what I would say. "There's nothing about your child having an emotional disorder/autism/intellectual delay/whatever that makes you a bad mom. In fact, what makes you a good mom is the fact that you're getting help for him." But knowing that feels like a token comment thrown into a brass urn, and as it clangs around the echoes it creates just serve to illustrate how vast and empty the void is.
I hate this. And yet, I want this. I want help. I can't control his emotional outbursts, I can't fix his social skills, I can't tell the difference between normal sadness and something more pathological - something more like what his aunt endured. He needs this, and I'm desperately looking forward to the help...and dreading it all the while.