And it's true. Today was opening day for Little League and my older son's first time in the "Majors." He pitched--one inning was a 1,2,3--and had a great offensive game as well. He crushed a line-drive double off a smack-talking pitcher, but rather than talk smack back, he just nodded and smiled. He stole three bases. They won.
And I missed all but the last half inning.
My ASD kid, The Boy, had an epic meltdown before the game even started. Correction: It wasn't a meltdown. It was a rage. He raged like I have never seen him rage. And he hurt me and almost caused a car accident.
Before the game, the boy asked for ice cream and to go home. I thought, OK, I'll take him for some ice cream and we'll be back in time for the game. I got him into the car and drove in the direction of the ice cream shop. And for some reason unbeknownst to me, the boy utterly lost his shit.
I don't know what triggered it, but he started screaming. He took off his glasses--new ones we had just picked up this morning to replace the ones he broke last week--and broke them in half and threw them at me. I pulled over to see what was the matter, and he unbuckled his seatbelt and hit me.
No ice cream, then. I re-buckled his seatbelt and drove home.
I don't know if I can adequately describe the trip home. "Nightmarish," "terrifying," "horrific," and any other drama queen words would be an understatement. He scratched at my face. He pulled out chunks of my hair. He kicked me in the head. He screamed and raged and punched and bit and completely lost control of himself. I kept having to pull over so I could wrench his fingers from my hair or his teeth from my arm. Both of us were sobbing. Who was this child?
We finally made it home and I ran him a bath to calm him down. I sat on the bathroom counter and emailed his doctor from my phone. I'm not sure what I wrote, but I'm sure it was an incoherent, blubbering mess. I sent my husband a text basically telling him that I hated his guts because he got to coach Little League and do typical parent things and I got to get the shit kicked out of me. (This was totally unfair of me. My husband is super-involved with both of our boys. I was feeling sorry for myself.) I cried a little bit.
Something you should know about me. We're four years into this "journey" (and you know what? Fuck that term, "journey." I hate it.) and I've hardly ever let myself cry. We got the diagnosis and I cried for about 30 seconds and got to work. I cried the first time he hit someone. Oh, and I cry for happy things and every damn commercial featuring a dog. But for myself? Not so much.
So I texted my husband and asked how Big Bro was doing. Turns out, he was doing great. He was pitching great, and I was missing it. And that's when I really broke down into big ugly tears with loud, heaving, grieving-whale sobs. My kid pitched a 1-2-3 inning and I didn't get to see it. Then I got a second text that he got hit by a pitch.
"Get out of the tub," I said to the boy. "We're going back to the field."
We got back in time to see the last three outs, which my son pitched really well. The smack-talker, hoping to unnerve him, yelled "FAIL!" just as he released the last pitch. It did the little shit no good. The throw was a strike and the game was over. The final score was 16-4 and the head coach gave Big Bro the game ball.
So you see, my son did get the game ball and I am a proud mom.
I just didn't tell them the rest of it.
Now if I post the proud mommy moments, but don't share the nasty stuff, doesn't it stand to reason that other people do the same? Fakebooking is like farting or picking a wedgie--everyone thinks they're the only ones who do it.
And by the way--next year, I'm attending coaching clinics. I will assistant coach and my husband will wrangle. 'Cause eff it.