For the love of bacon

I knew it when I put that bacon in the microwave. I had sliced it in half yesterday when I was cooking, and I bagged the rest to use later. I fooled myself into thinking that the sliced in half bacon would be sufficient for Addison's breakfast. Two scrambled eggs and three whole slices of bacon with one slice of white bread toast...just the same, every morning since we moved to New Orleans a few weeks ago. I knew that's what he would want but I put that half sliced bacon in the microwave anyway and cooked the eggs for him like it wouldn't be a big deal.

When I put the plate in front of him, he looked at me like I had served him a plate of live squid. He shifted in his chair a little and breathed in and out a few times before saying, “This bacon is short.” I tried to be cool. I played nonchalant and explained why the bacon was smaller than normal. He even ate a piece of it. I could see the wheels turning in his mind. He was really contemplating that breakfast. I actually think he was trying to figure out if he could eat the breakfast. Maybe he even wanted to at first. I realized I was holding my breath when he put his fork down and said, “I'm not hungry.”

I don't know why in the hell I decided at that moment that today was going to be the day...the day that I put my foot down with this kid and made him mind me. Whatever the reason, I dug my nails into the arm of the chair and fixed my expression and said, “You need to eat your eggs.” The events of the next ten minutes were a blurry mess of me first trying to bribe him into eating the eggs and then making compounded threats of groundings to come and him still refusing to eat the eggs. By the time I realized that I wasn't going to win this battle, I had grounded Addison from everything with a plug and/or batteries and also from going anywhere even remotely close to natural light. Still, those eggs sat on that plate untouched.

Finally, I said “Addison, I need you to eat half of those eggs and you aren't going to leave that seat until they aren't on that plate.” He very calmly and coolly picked up the plate and dumped the eggs and that damn short bacon onto the floor. I have to hand it to him. They weren't on the plate anymore, now were they Mom?

Then I laid the gauntlet: “Clean up those eggs right now or I am going to spank you.”

A physical struggle ensued. I lost the shame associated with admitting that this happens in our house a long time ago. I am not a spanker. Never have been...even with my other two boys. I can't count the number of times I have been advised that all Addison needs is a good spanking. But you can't spank Asperger's out of a kid any more than you can spank diabetes out of a kid or spank cancer out of a kid or...well, you get my point. So I very rarely use any physical contact as punishment, but occasionally I have to take it to that place. When I feel Addison escalating to violence (which he has struggled with in the past), I do have to keep him safe from himself and keep others safe from him. I could see it in his face that he was going to that place. He does this thing with his jaw, like halfway between a grimace and a grin but with clinched teeth.

I could see it in his face and I knew it was coming. He was looking around his immediate area for stuff to throw. I grabbed him and held onto him for dear life and hugged and chanted in my head and tried to ride it out. When I began to feel him release a little and heard in his voice that he was getting down from the ledge, I let go. In the 45 seconds it took for him to clean up the eggs, I wrote a novel in my head. I couldn't just let him get away with this, could I? I had to punish the whole mess, right? Should I just let it go? Could I? God I really wish I could just let it go. I don't want to fight anymore. He's only been awake for 30 minutes. What should I do? Can I talk without crying at this point? Don't let him see you cry, Jana. How can I prove my point without pissing him off again? Damn, I just mopped that floor an hour ago.

After he finished, I sent him to the kitchen table and put a notebook and pencil in front of him and said, “Write lines to the bottom of the page: I will mind my mother.”

The conversation went something like this:

Addison: You are not my mother anymore and I am not writing that. I will run away. I will go to the street.
Me: Well, you are not leaving the table until you do.
Addison: I'm not.
Me: Yes, you are.
Addison: You aren't my mother.
Me: Well, you can write “I will mind Jana” if that makes you feel better.
Addison: I am not writing that either.

(Addison rips the page of notebook paper in half and throws it on the floor with the pencil.)

Me: We will sit right here until you write it. I have all day, and you are already grounded from everything.
Addison: How about I just write “I'm sorry.”

(My heart rips in half and I have to look away so he doesn't see me crying.)

Me: Are you sorry?
Addison: No, I'm not. But that's less to write.
Me: OK, you can write I'm Sorry.
Addison: I'm not writing that either. Never mind. I'm leaving. I will find a new family to live with.
Me: Well Addison, I really don't know if you would be able to find a family to let you live with them the way you are acting.

(Thinking to myself...”That will get his attention! He will back down now! Yes!”)

Addison: I wouldn't act like this with another family. I would be nice to them because I would care about their feelings. I don't care about your feelings and that's why I am mean to you.

(Wow.)

I stayed firmly planted by the kitchen counter and we kind of just stared at each other for what seemed like eighty lifetimes but was probably thirty seconds. Finally Addison picked up the notebook and said, “I will write I'm Sorry.” After some negotiations about periods and apostrophes and whether the parakeet would survive without a fresh bowl of water until the lines were done, Addison started to write.

He slowly but surely writes “Im....sor....”and then his face starts to scrunch a little and he says, “My handwriting is not so good mom. I can't do this.” I tell him that the handwriting doesn't matter as long as he does the lines and he says “I'm so stupid. I'm such a stupid little boy. I can't even write,” and his face crumples and tears well up in his eyes. Now I have to summon all my wisdom and pride and Asperger Mom knowledge and decide what is important here. Do I make him write the lines...to prove my authority and to punish him for not eating cold scrambled eggs that I wouldn't have eaten myself? Or do I go over and hug him and tell him how smart and sweet and funny he is and how I have a really cool handwriting dry erase board that we can use to practice his letters on?

I chose the latter. I hugged. I told him that I thought the R's that he wrote were suberb and that I like the way he made his M humps. I helped him write “I'm Sorry” five more times on the page and put the notebook away. When he got up from the table, Addison came over and gave me a kind of side-hug and patted my shoulder and said, “I'm sorry for being a jerk, Mom. I will eat whatever you cook me for lunch,..if its not scrambled eggs.”