Can I Sit With You? Live! is in Redwood City tonight. Come, damn it!
Today I'm not even sure I know who Leelo is. Maybe Sage can tell me, when I take him to speech therapy this afternoon.
There is something going on with Leelo's sensory systems, some kind of input/output jamming signal that our regular Leelo can't break through. He will not comply with any request, is having toilet accidents at school, and is having the shrieking for shrieking's sake and mad giggling fits that I haven't seen in a very, very, very long time and frankly never expected to see again.
Possibly his body is reacting to not having had cod liver oil for four days straight (we ran out), and getting more sugar (cookies and juice) than the usual no sugar. Sweets have historically made him koo-koo-kooky, but we hadn't seen this kind of reaction to the occasional juice box in a verrrrrry long time.
Part of me also worries that he might really be in pain, that his mad laughing fits are equivalent to an injured cat's purring. But I can't think about that too much. Just like I am not going to think about Mali's new, and understandable, habit of screaming in terror any time Leelo gets within five feet of her, once I finish writing this sentence. I will keep them separate.
I tried dosing Leelo with Motrin last night. His weight requires three teaspoons; his temperament made him refuse to take more than 1.5 before he grabbed the cup and poured it down the sink (with really good language, too: "Put it in the sink, Mom."). I guess we'll try the Sudafed tonight, instead.
We're going to start the sleep study tomorrow night. Part of me is excited to think that Leelo might get more help, might get more skills and tools to make one part of his life go more smoothly. I will pursue almost anything that might ground him, or help him feel comfortable, relaxed, and happy.
Though I have to admit I have slight reservations about the sleep study's surveys about Leelo's home life and my own mindset and approach to parenting. The surveys are lengthy and thorough. The researcher mentioned that it is not uncommon for parents of autistic children to be diagnosed with clinical depression after such forms have been completed and reviewed.
My concern: I don't have time to be depressed. I can't have a depression label. I would be too likely to use it as an excuse to step off the speeding freight train that is my life and responsibilities. And then who would take over? Seymour is doing more than his fair share as is. No, I am an adult with adult responsibilities that are overwhelming but certainly doable. Best to carry on and keep busy. And still fill out the forms honestly, sigh.
Good news: Iz and Violet got into their school talent show. This is good news because they organized, practiced, and auditioned completely independently, during school, and without the help of whatever being the opposite of a stage mom would make me. Icky news: They're singing a Hannah Montana song, which goes to show that while we parents can block our children's primary media feeds, we can't stop lame tweeny gloss pop from seeping into their lives if that's what they crave.
And in why not share everything news: Mali is starting to use the toilet independently. The switch in her brain flipped over this past weekend, and we've had both solid and liquid production but not a single accident since. Some children just need to wait until they're ready. (My mom pointed out, with a only slightly vindictive gleam in her eye, that I refused to toilet train before I was ready, too.)