...words on a page to sort things out...

Finding the time to sit down to write is a challenge in and of itself.  Gone are the days of scheduled anything...gone are the minutes etched into my planner in ink...gone is any semblance of predictability.  It's the toddler's world, and I'm just surviving it.

And that...above...is what accounts for 90% of my difficulty in getting words onto page.  Because while my head may be overflowing, trying to organize into rational thought at a moment's notice (when Henri finally drops off for a power-nap) between all the other burdens of priority, just doesn't work.  For the words to flow, I need to quiet the tempest.  And to quiet the tempest, I need to remove the input.  And to remove the input, I need first to do all the other things.

And by the time the other things are done, Henri is wiiiiiide awake and I've lost the chance, and the words swirl into a maelstrom of discontent and disconnect and disappointment.

And then I shake them loose, and the post disappears into the ether, and the page remains blank.

~~~

I suppose I'll look back at some point in the near-distant future and see this as a time of refining.  Certainly, I've been winnowed down to little more than immediate reaction and constant alert.  Henri's toddlerhood is not unlike Johannes'.  So many, many similarities between my two boys.  Of course, there's that little detail of 17 years difference...and I feel it in my very bones.

Everything hurts.

Henri is, as Johannes was, sensory seeking and sensory avoidant and everything in between.  The pressure and relief sought, is taken out on my physical body daily.  Once again, all these years later, I'm covering up bruises and scratches and bite marks...and wondering how the younger me made it through.

~~~

I feel...defeated.

I feel...incompetent.

~~~

No. Scratch that. I feel as though my motherhood is being hindered by others.  As though, my success lies wholly in single-motherhood and once I have to allow for others in the mix...whether it's Henri's Papa or his big brother...it throws off the balance and offsets the gains.

Welp...there it is in black and white...stark words in stark contrast for me to admit and acknowledge.

~~~

I'm good at single parenting.

I'm failing at partnered parenting.

~~~

There's just no balance.  I can't account for what I don't know about.  I can't add in the resources or reserves to cover needs that are in their heads.  I can't put Henri on hold and spend precious time teaching my partner what comes naturally to me.

~~~

And worse yet?  I can't be guided by my intuition and instincts if I can't tune into them because the other voices in the room are shouting.

~~~

And so it goes.  Me, fighting to keep my head above water while drowning under the pile-on of needs and expectations from everyone else.  Me, stalled in my intuitive approach to parent a neurodivergent child because everyone else needs me to be able to teach them a technique or approach.

Me...half in the shadow of everyone else and falling prey to feelings of worthlessness.

~~~

And Henri?  Frustrated...stalled...lashing out.

~~~

Perhaps these words on this page will be enough.

Just the writing of them. The reading of them.

Perhaps I'll publish them and turn a corner.

I want to. I desperately need to.

~~~

I know, down somewhere deep within me, who I am as a mother.  I know her well, and I've silenced her for too long...trying to make room for others to weigh in.  Perhaps this signals the end of that?

~~~~

Let me be her again.

Let me be me again.

~~~

Sitting here...cursor blinking...one boy snuffling in his sleep and the other typing away across the table from me, I choose her...me...I choose me.

Everyone else can just coast along in my wake until they manage to get up on their own.  But I won't be stopping to pull them alongside me any longer.  I can't. I won't.