Monday, January 31, 2011


Mornings with Hassaan are, quite simply, yet again an example in extremes.  Mornings are when Hassaan is often most cuddly.  I love when he crawls into bed with me for a cuddle.  I don't, however, like it when he does it before 7am.  Yesterday I got a long, in depth description about how he played World of Warcraft with Daddy the night before and what the character did, where it went, and on and on.  The problem with this?  It was 5:45am.  Hassaan doesn't seem to possess the ability to go back to sleep after 5am.  This is the third time in two weeks that he's been up between 5 and 6 and seems to think the absolute best thing in the world would be to tell me a story.  Don't get me wrong - I love his stories.  I especially love the facial expressions that go along with them.  What I don't like his is his stories at any hour that starts with anything less than 6 and ends in "a.m.".

Anyway, today is Monday, so it's back to school for Hassaan.  A school day does not make for a fun morning in our house.  He wakes up happy enough.  Will eat breakfast happy enough.  Then he is called to get dressed.  He'll stand at the top of the stairs at the playroom and yell down "why?  WHY do I have to come down?" And I know what the reaction will be if I say "because it's time to get dressed."  Screaming, running, arguing.  Every. Single. Morning.  It does not matter how the subject is broached, it always ends the same way.  Most mornings he'll eventually come and I'll have to physically move him into the bedroom to get dressed.  He will plant himself on the floor.  Eventually he'll get dressed and life will go on.  But then there are those other mornings.  Those mornings that just say that the day is going to be long and hard and I haven't even gotten my work uniform on yet.  These are the mornings in which I end up sitting on the bed, him between my legs, trying to get him dressed with one hand while I hold his other hands to him so he can't kick, hit, punch or bite me.  He can, however, repeatedly lean forward and then throw himself backwards as hard as he can.  The number of bruises I've had on my collarbone because of this I've lost count.  I have, however, mastered the art of dressing a oppositional and defiant five year old with one hand.

The thing is, I know this behaviour isn't him.  It's the disorder.  One or both, I don't care.  What I do care about is to remind myself that this is not Hassaan himself, but that part of his brain that doesn't function like yours or mine.  Even when I want to strangle the child.

No comments:

Post a Comment