Sunday Blues

Growing up, I used to have bad anxiety attacks on Sunday nights. I would have fear about impending doom, start crying and generally be a mess.

I have not been doing much better lately. A debacle at my children's preschool has meant that my entire week's schedule got thrown off. I had planned everything so that I only had to be at preschool on Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

Tuesday's we had dance for Bekah and Thursdays were wide open. It allowed me to spend time alone with Doug two mornings. I had signed him up for storytime on Monday mornings. I was excited to spend time with him just by himself.

He has gotten the short end of the stick when it comes to attention from me. He was born into a family with a brother and sister who are needy and persistent. Bekah has always existed within inches of me. Wherever I go, she goes.

Jeremy allows me some autonomy but likes to snuggle up next to me on the couch. He is more prone to make requests of me constantly (for milk, pretzels, veggies, apple slices, etc.)

Between the two of them, Doug and I get very little time to ourselves. If I start to pay too much attention to him, his brother and sister insert themselves into the situation. Lately, Bekah has started manhandling him. She sits behind him, straddling him, puts her arms around him and falls back so that he's on top of her on his back.

She likes to hug him after he's pulled himself up at the couch. If he's sitting on my lap, she's trying to kiss him and hold him.

I don't get a chance to read him books. We can't play together on our own. All of this has taken it's toll. He is almost 15 months old, is not walking yet and still has not called me mommy. he doesn't know who Bekah and Jeremy are-he has no symbol or word for them. If you say, "where's Daddy?" he doesn't know where to look.

I know that kids all progress at their own pace. He just started therapy (occupational and physical) to help him develop these skills. I had a lot of guilt about him starting this process. I feel like I've let him down; that I've not performed to a high enough standard as a mommy.

He is not autistic; he is ebullient, makes beautiful eye contact, loves to snuggle and is generally well-adjusted. He is not hearing-impaired and he doesn't have any disabilities. He just doesn't have language. He also hasn't started using sign language to a point that we're able to communicate.

It is tough to see him connect emotionally with me but not have a word for me. It's tough to see him crawl toward Brian and reach out his arms, but not be able to connect that Brian is his daddy. It's like we exist in a parallel universe to him; we're nice enough people, we meet his needs nicely enough, but he's not sure really who we are.

There's an emotional emptiness there. I can't explain it, but it's hard to not connect with him. I hate that he doesn't greet me with "momma" when I open his door in the morning. I hate that he doesn't have funny names for his brother and sister.

And so here I sit, on a Sunday night. I am not strangled by anxiety, but I am morose. I am pissed and sad that I don't get to spend time alone with Doug tomorrow. I am angry at the inept new director at the preschool who screwed up the whole schedule I had.

Tonight, Doug did crawl over to me at the couch and want to snuggle. Since he's started to crawl, he's been pretty excited to be constantly on the go. It's been lovely to have him requesting, in non-verbal ways, to spend time with me. As soon as he got into my lap, I had to fight Bekah off of him and delegate milk retrieval to Brian.

I know he will catch up. His therapists are optimistic. I know before long I'll tire of hearing him say "momma." On this Sunday night, though, I'm dreaming of the day he greets me with a loud "momma," arms outstretched. I guarantee there will be tears.