We had a bad autism night last night.
A bad, bad, I mean really bad autism night. One that ended with hysterical screaming, things being thrown, and finally, bodily harm.
Testosterone. It's a helluva drug.
His sister came rushing in to see what the ruckus was and I found myself standing between them as she tried to stand between him and me.
Both of us trying to protect the other and then both of us trying to protect him from himself as he threw himself down, beating the floor and calling himself names for having accidentally hurt me.
Tears all around and more screaming as he refused an early bedtime for his bad behavior.
Finally, he cried himself to sleep and I saw an endless parade of days like this weaving in and out, stretching on forever, because the truth is, he may not be able to live on his own someday, so he'll be living with me.
And yes, my logical mind knows that there's an equal chance that he will be able to live an independent life.
My logical mind knows that once this rush of puberty hormones evens out, he'll even out again.
My logical mind knows that incidents like this are - thankfully - very infrequent.
My logical mind knows that he's sunshine in a bottle and my biggest cheerleader and best buddy, just not right at that moment.
But my logical mind wasn't talking last night. My well of patience and strength ran dry, and my logical mind was huddled in a corner, wishing she had a bottle of wine and a beach and week off from work and a boyfriend to hold me and tell my troubles to.
Cue the personal pity party. And I did. I wallowed and I cried and I told myself my life was miserable and I was a crap mother.
But tomorrow is another day, and he woke up smiling and apologizing, and I made him bacon and waffles, and he climbed on a school bus and I went to work and we're all back to normal.
Well, normal for us, anyway.
I love my kid. And my other kid. That's the truest truth I know, and it's what makes everything work. And everything worth it.
Especially when the well runs dry.