My hands are full. I suppose I could see how this simple statement that spectators like to offer might come across as offensive, but I never saw it as such. To me, it appeared as a way to notice that I was doing the best I could considering, but there’s just not enough of a single me to go around.
The thing is, I do have my hands full. They are spilling over, actually. This mothering gig doesn’t come easily. I’m not the only one.
Because aside from what you see, there is what you can’t. There truly is something to be said about not judging a book by its cover. If all I had to deal with was my daughter and all of her exaggerated 3 year old antics. This really is the hardest age. Except there’s more, as there always is. There’s the worry and stress that come with Jedi’s diabetes. It adds an additional question on top of everything. He’s your typical 8 year old in every other way, however, a barrel of contradiction and steadfast opinions. So even that doesn’t say it all.
There’s more, as there tends to be. Without knowing him, Buzz looks like a typical 5 year old boy. And when he acts out in public, you could assume that I just don’t have a grip on my son. But his autism manifests in many extremes. He is exuberant energy and emotions that range from the highest high to the lowest low with nary an in between. At his best, he is difficult to manage. His attention and focus are limited, tried and true discipline doesn’t work. He lashes out when he doesn’t know what else to do. Which is often. Even with every great quality, of which there are many, he could take up the only two hands I have by himself.
So yes, my hands are full. To those who say it out loud or just think it to yourself as you pass by. I completely agree with you.