Sometimes my compassion for my son is about puddle deep. I just want him to get things he doesn’t get. And yet, I keep trying to force the issue. When will you get that you have to rinse the food monoliths off the plates before you put them in the dishwasher? I know you just learned how not to leave them dirty in the sink, but just add a little step. You would think I was teaching him past participles in Hebrew.
As I think about it, that sentence to him is almost acceptable, but that is because you cannot hear the tone I used when I said it and it would have been nice to truncate that humiliating, When will you get… part.
It is all an executive function thing. I need to chill. Why in the world am I getting all flummoxed about an obvious disability? Oh, right, it isn’t that obvious, but it is a disability. I must choose to tread lightly. I can be way too hard on this boy who comes from very difficult beginnings. Up the compassion. Up the empathy, Ce. YOU can do it. YOU want to do it. YOU have enough love in your heart to be generous. Just do it.
Okay, I will. I declare my home and my mouth Compassion Zones.