But we'll get to how that ties into my day in just a second.
If you are anything like me, and I am just assuming you are, or why would you be reading this (right?), the end of the school year comes as a whirlwind of over-stimulation, anxiety and the dreaded (by us) loss of routine.
This morning was pretty typical of our anxiety moving higher.
Gabriel had a field trip today.
And his birthday celebration.
And tomorrow is his birthday.
And Sunday is his party.
Lots to feel anxious over today.
He woke up this morning and joined me in the office. He was whimpering, and was obviously SO SO SO low. Lower than his normal wake up.
"Good Morning. You look pretty low still. Do you need to lay back down?"
"Ahhheeeegggaahhhhhhh," he responded while throwing himself to the floor with his illustrious Hippo blanket quickly being pulled back over his head.
"Wow, you are having a hard time already. Why don't you lie down?"
He immediately threw himself on the floor and covered his head just inches from my husband's gaming computer.
He closed his eyes and laid there.
I quickly stopped what I was doing and ushered him into the other room.
That was met with the ceremonious screaming and stomping, which has truly become a morning ritual here.
"Gabriel, head upstairs, and come down when you are in a better mood, or you are ready for my help," I told him.
And under much protest he went back upstairs.
By the time he got dressed, he was downstairs on jeans and a Tshirt. Mostly OK.
I mentioned the field trip today. What I didn't say was that it was an outside nature hike. And it is 80 here today.
"Gabriel, I see you put on jeans today, but did you see outside that it is really sunny? It is going to be hot out today. I need you to put on shorts."
"NO! I am NOT going back upstairs."
"But you'll need to go get your socks anyway--"
He produces a pair of socks from underneath his butt. Lovely. He literally pulled socks out of his ass to prove me wrong.
"Well good job remembering them." I say, "But we still have to go upstairs to get your medicine."
"I am NOT going to take my medicine!"
"Why don't we do this: You finish up your routine and we can talk about it again when we are upstairs getting your medicine."
He turns and leaves, dirty looks and guttural groans.
We make it to the part where he has had some breakfast, and we've gone through his backpack.
Out of the backpack he pulls a reminder about his field trip.
We begin to pack his lunch, but of course I do not have the directed brown bag for a "sac lunch". I am terrified that my B&W thinker will find this a problem, so I rephrase the letter on the fly while I am reading it to him.
"Please pack a saaaa----bagged lunch to bring with you.....and wear appropriate clothing for the weather.....dress in layers....wear socks and close toed shoes....."
It was important that here hear there were directions on how to dress, and that it isn't just my idea. Easier to make my little rule follower comply.
He pseudo believes me about the clothes and I distract him quickly with some great art on a gallon sized ziploc bag of a rocket ship, stars, a moon and per request, an Alien. I even write the word Alien on his napkin, and he says, "I know this says 'Astro'." Almost.
Regardless, he is happy with the large lunch we packed (PB&J, Banana, Juice Box, Raisins, and Fish Crackers--something for every sense) and quickly shoves it in his pack.
I remind him to take his two packages of organic chocolate creme filled cookies (Ah, like Oreos) without HFCS that his daddy so bailed me out by buying at ten o'clock last night, and he happily adds them to his pack.
Back to the clothing issue.
"I can't change my pants I have my shoes on!!" he blurts at me indignant that I do not see the dilemma.
"Head up, we're getting your medicine."
I follow him up the stairs where he immediately takes a hard left to his room, screaming that he is "not going," "hates field trips", and won't take his medicine.
Another day in my life.
This is where I pause.
I take a moment in the hallway and think to myself, "This is really my life."
And I laugh. Mostly inside, but a little giggle slips out.
I go into his room, to find him undressing, but he is pissed off.
He is crying and yelling and has begun putting on a pair of shorts that I can tell immediately are not his. They are Matthew's.
"Gabe those aren't yours. Stop a second." I try to avoid the inevitable need for him to change his clothes, yet again.
"NO! They were in my drawer!"
"Yes, I know that, but really, Daddy makes that mistake all the time. We still have to check the tag." I respond, thankful that his daddy does the laundry, and even more thankful that I have some one to blame. Much more logical that way.
He reads that it says 4T.
I open his drawer and hand him a pair to wear. He puts them on.
"I am NOT putting my shoes back on."
"Fine, carry them into the bathroom."
He does, and then takes his medicine under verbal protest.
And downstairs we go, still carrying the shoes.
We finish our routine, and I notice Gabe has put his shoes and his backpack on.
It is about 8:34am. Approximately.
"I am ready to go now." He announces.
"Gabriel, it isn't time to go to school yet. Do you remember when we leave?"
"I am ready to go NOW!"
"Yes, but no one is at school now."
"I am ready to go NOW!"
"OK, but we don't leave until 8:55. You still have 20 minutes."
"I am ready to go NOW!"
"Gotcha. You are ready to go now."
"Yes." He says, relieved that I finally got it.
"Ok, can you find a waiting game while I get your brothers ready?"
"Can I watch a show?"
"Sure, but you might not have time to watch the whole thing."
"Ok." He shrugs like I should know he is the most flexible child in the world and that would be easy for him.
Sure enough, when it is time to go he is packed, ready, and his body is calm and organized. Why? Because he has spent the last 20 minutes watching a show with a stuffed backpack on. For all of you who ask me about how to incorporate a "Sensory Diet" at home, here it is.
The proprioception he got from carrying his backpack with SO MUCH more food in it than normal, gave him the input he needed to raise his body's engine. It is what I consider a passive way of getting exercise.
The moral of this story, "Let them deliver pickles",