Well, yesterday was rotten. It started Friday when we had a playdate with a little boy from school. Pajama Monster had a great time but got way too wound up and started acting out by ripping things, pouring juice into their carpet and repeatedly sticking the cat's loose catnip in their shoes. We ended the playdate and I tried to get Pajama Monster back on track, but he continued to be off for the rest of the day. When he's in that state he just does lots of little things he know he shouldn't do. It's the push buttons, stick your feet on the table, throw the toy in the trash kind of behavior. He does each behavior very deliberately and is delighted when we see it. Saturday was a constant series of such small acts of defiance. We managed to go out to eat but Pajama Monster had to be taken out of the restaurant at one point because he wouldn't just sit and eat but insisted on deliberately doing the opposite of everything he was asked to do, loudly.
On Sunday Pajama Monster started again acting out in little ways, then threw a bunch of the sugar packets in the trash at the coffee shop, refused to take his time out and was generally rude and loud and defiant. He's been hitting off and on for the last several days as well. That was the end of our family fun for the day. When he acts like that we have to give up all family plans to go out to eat or visit a park, etc. and just go home. If we don't it gets progressively worse and always ends in him screaming and hitting and unbuckling himself and running frantically doing as many bad things as fast as he can. We took him home from the coffee shop and tried to get him calmed down but the rest of the day was just a series of little incidents of him picking at people, being defiant, and trying to make everyone upset. They weren't horrible individually. They were just constant little things like pulling all the towels down so I'll have to pick them all up and put them away again or yelling and being loud whenever we tried to sing Peep her lullabies at bedtime. It wasn't full strength Pajama Monster, but it feels like we're headed there.
This morning I woke up and had to walk him through potty and toothbrush time. He claimed he didn't have to urinate. I asked him to play for a little while and eat his banana as I nursed Peep. When I came back I found that rather than playing he had elected to squat in his doorway and urinate into the hall carpet. He has a potty in his room and is across the hall from the bathroom. There was no reason and he wasn't remotely sorry. He just wanted to be rotten, yet again.
I feel like this is just our reality. We all get dressed and ready to go do something as a family and then Pajama Monster starts acting out and we all just get to sit around the house wishing we could do the same things everyone else gets to do. I have this fantasy of walking along at a beach or science museum or zoo or campground with my husband at my side and our two babies running around exploring. It's just a fantasy though because the reality is that my husband wouldn't be there. He's unwilling to be out somewhere that far from home with Pajama Monster because then we're stuck there dealing with him when he acts out and he's much harder to contain. The reality is that we usually don't get to go at all, and when we do it's just me with the two kids trying to contain Pajama Monster so he won't just suddenly start running around trying to break, damage and destroy.
For almost three weeks it felt like we had an answer. Pajama Monster was playing and laughing and reading his first Dr. Seuss book all by himself. He was snuggling and arguing with his sister and playing with her and apologizing when he did something wrong and getting excited about playdates, but then it just seemed to start swinging back the other direction. I'm afraid the psychiatrist will suggest adding yet another med into the mix. I don't even want the ones we're already using. I'm not sure how much worse things will get on the Depakote. So far things are looking better than they used to, even if they're not what I was hoping for. How much does it have to help to be worth giving to a four year old? My thought is that it would need to help a lot to be worth the risk.
I feel like I spend part of my days angry and most of the time heart sick. I just want him to go through the day without gleefully going out of his way to make everyone's life miserable. I can handle fighting with his sister and the occasional pushing or hitting, and tantrums when he doesn't get his way. I can handle the testing limits and the questioning things and even the whining, but this is different. He gets a look on his face and you realize that he can't be trusted for a second because if he has a pencil he'll use it to stab holes in the couch and write on the walls. If he gets a bath he'll bale the water out all over the floor. He'll take the dirty diapers and hide them under the couch and smear his own poo everywhere. He'll throw garbage in your tea when you're not looking and then knock his sister into the wall because he doesn't like being told he can't have another pencil. They're not huge things but they're constant. I'm trying so hard to help. We've spent years trying to help him name the feelings he gets when he's acting out and trying to get him to tell us when he's feeling that way. We've worked on countless calm down strategies and methods for us to soothe or help him self soothe. I play with him and comfort him and cuddle him and read to him and do art projects and activities and outings with him, but nothing changes. In the middle of every moment is the knowledge that he still will routinely ask for a kiss and then spit on my face or pull my hair when I lean down. Knowing that I have a bad back and it hurts me if he jumps when I hug him, he'll consistently as for a hug and then just jump and pick up his feet, whenching my back but secure in the knowledge that I'll throw my back out rather than let him fall. But what's my choice? Should I refuse to ever hug or kiss him? I'm just not willing to do that, so I get spit on and hurt and spend my days scrubbing poo, because I'm Mommy and that's what he seems to think I deserve. Some days I think he hates me, but then I have to sit and remember his illness. No one would choose this. It's not his fault. He doesn't hate me. It just feels that way.
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