Whenever I hear the phrase “roller coaster ride,” I typically think of the highs and lows it represents. True, a thrilling roller coaster has its ups and downs, usually fraught with some amount of excitement and unpredictability (or even harrowing predictability), but a good one also has some twists and turns. Parts are fun, parts are exciting, and some parts make you wish you could just get off that thing. Like, now.
Such is today.
Last week I was tickled pink by the discovery that Maddie apparently has straight A’s. Woohoo! A thrilling surprise!
And today we are back in the “my kid won’t get out of bed” portion of the ride. Oh, boy, my favorite! This, I suppose, feels more like that slow climb at the beginning of a roller coaster, which I’ve always found uncomfortable. Something else is coming, whether exciting or terrifying, but it’s something. This part is the drudgery.
Or maybe it’s like the entirety of the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland, which basically just makes my neck hurt. Too much jerking around. I have spent an awful lot of time at the chiropractor lately.
Today Maddie announced she doesn’t get enough sleep. Well, that is not at all true. She is 15 years old and we make her go to bed between 8:00 and 8:30. I wake her up at 6:30. So she’s getting in the neighborhood of 10 hours of sleep. Maybe nine and a half. But I get it. When my alarm goes off each day, it sends a wave of despair throughout my body. Ugh. Not only is it dark, but my first order of business is the most important and typically the most challenging. It’s not a great way to start the day. Dark in a couple ways, I guess.
This morning Maddie needed a few extra minutes for her morning routine. She didn’t shower last night, as scheduled, so in lieu of a shower she was supposed to spend a few minutes this morning doing some cleanup. You know, because of the smell. When I made this pronouncement last night, I wasn’t optimistic. She’s usually shoving a few bites of breakfast in her mouth when the cab pulls up in the morning, and I’m lifting her backpack onto her back and putting her sweatshirt in her hand while escorting her to the door. “Have fun! I love you!” I say, trying to be calm and encouraging. I really want to say, with my hands in fists and my jaw clenched, “Get your ass up there, Maddie!” but I don’t talk to her like that.
So this morning, she is lying in bed. Not moving. Not talking. Nothing. Finally, she says, “I need more sleep.” Finally. Words.
I give in a little. I see the writing on the wall. Or some of it anyway. So I call the transportation guy and let him know the cab doesn’t need to make a stop here this morning, but Maddie will need a ride home. Oh, I am so hilarious! I am still thinking she’s going to school.
The problem is, I have things to do today. I have to be home by 9:30 to receive a furniture delivery. And then I have other plans. It is not workable for me to spend the 45-60 minutes driving her to school whenever she feels like it. Nor do I think that’s reasonable.
“You can sleep for an hour,” I tell her, “and then I have to drive you to school because I need to be home.”
“That’s not enough sleep,” she says.
“How much do you need? What time are you thinking?” I ask. Reality is beginning to sink in. She doesn’t answer.
“You’re not planning to go to school at all, are you?”
“No, not really.”
Well, at least I have an answer. I can stop the negotiating and finagling, but I’m very unhappy with the situation. It’s Tuesday. She doesn’t like Tuesdays, we have established. Well, now neither do I.
This makes me think of the very first time we took the kids to Disneyland. She was four, and my son was 2. It had been more than 20 years since my last visit. I was so happy! We entered the park, and in a fit of nostalgia, headed straight to the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. It’s slow and easy, but it’s dark in there. I had forgotten, also, about two small drops in the beginning of the ride. It’s so dark that they come as a surprise. After the first one, little Maddie said, in her deadpan delivery, “Oh. This isn’t good.”
No, it’s not good, but there we are, stuck on the ride, whether it’s good or not.
I turn off her light and exit the room. I’m trying to take some deep breaths and let it go. I feel the tension in my neck and, I swear, in my brain. I’m stretching and breathing. Whatever part of the ride this is, I hate it. It’s that one upside-down twist too many.
Actually it reminds me of a ride called the Hammerhead Shark at Discovery Kingdom in Vallejo. You just swing up one way and hang there for what feels like an eternity. Then you swing down the other way, and up again for another seventeen hours. The one and only time I rode that thing, I actually feared for my life. I wasn’t entirely convinced the bars that were clamped in front of me would continue to hold me, and then I’d fall face first into the ground. I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes and waited for it to be over. Luckily, I never ever have to get on that thing again.
I wouldn’t say that Maddie’s refusal to go to school feels especially dangerous, but it’s symbolic of the struggle we face, and of the uncertainty that comes with it. Also the lack of control I feel over the circumstances. Just as gravity would have taken over had the ride’s safety measures failed, so does, perhaps, the Asperger’s. I have no control over this situation. I want to have at least some feeling of control. But today I don’t. I don’t even seem to have any influence.
Then again, Maddie does have straight A’s (at least for the moment). Maybe an occasional day off isn’t the worst thing in the world. This is so confusing.
Today I’d like to stick to the carousel. It’s relaxing. It’s predictable. Pretty much anybody can enjoy it. Usually there are music and pretty colors, too! That sounds so pleasant. The ups and downs are really small, barely perceptible. Everybody’s smiling! It gradually slows down–no starts and stops, no jerks or squeaky breaks–and then everyone has plenty of time to get off. Or if you want, you can just stay put and ride it again.
I’m starting to relax. I’m heading toward acceptance. This is what today is. It just is. Whatever comes my way–and I realize nobody ever knows what’s coming–I will nod my head and think, bring it on. I can do this.
I can take the slow ride up and the fast ride down, the loops and twists and the hang-upside-downs. Eventually it will slow down. Eventually I will get off. And then I will get on another ride. And that’s okay. I might not enjoy an awful lot of it, but I will be alright.
Years ago, on that girls-only trip to Disneyland, we went (finally!) on California Screaming in California Adventure Park. That is an AWESOME roller coaster. Just the perfect blend of excitement and fun. Maddie screamed the entire time. I couldn’t see her face, so I became unsure of the intent behind her screams.
Finally I asked, “Are you OK?”
“I’M GREAT!” she yelled. She was taking in every curve and drop of that ride and living it to its fullest.
Maybe, like Maddie, I should scream just for the fun of it. I can’t get off this ride, but I can make the most of it! Or at least I can try.
The Year of Living Hopefully 