Out, that is. Out of aftercare. I knew it was coming, was trying to stay ahead of the curve but they beat me to it.
As time went by it was becoming painfully obvious that the hubbub and chaos of a large group aftercare program was not the right environment for my highly sensitive son. I had hoped that the medication we just started him on would help, but it's still the same story, every single day. Hitting. Oppositional. Can't sit still. Won't participate. Refuses to cooperate. Runs out the door.
I start interviewing home care candidates tomorrow. I can't afford it, but I hear that if I just leave him home alone for six hours with scissors and a hand grenade I'm probably crossing some sort of legal boundary, so home care it is.
Times like these I realize I need a wife to stay home and watch my kids. Because, you know, the applicants are just lining up by the droves to get involved with the codependent, opinionated half-crazy middle-aged woman and her two non-neurotypical kids. Can't you hear my phone ringing off the hook with all the guys asking me on a date? No? Yeah, you probably hear the same dead silence I do. Oh well, I suck at relationships anyway.
I'm ok. Or at least, I will be. So will C. We just have some work to do to get there.
