Two weeks ago, I packed up Tyoma for an impromptu vacation.
This morning, I finally recovered from that vacation.
Sometimes, I question the soundness of my urges to take my son on “getaways.”
I am autistic. Grocery shopping, doctor’s visits, and busy restaurants leave me jittery and unnerved. Yet, I longed to take a beach holiday. A holiday alone with my similarly autistic son.
Was this madness or bravery?
My history of adventures with my son is consistent. I endure the effort of each trip with cheer. When I return home, however, I teeter on the brink of a nervous collapse for days.
Bedtime meltdowns in particular promote post-trip burnout. Our typical nights in strange places are pandemonium. In the past, he has knocked over lamps, yanked pictures off the wall and even called 911.
This trip he dozed off without incident–every single night. A first!
Hooray for Tyoma!
Nevertheless, I wonder why I undertake such grand adventures.
Part of it is boredom. I can’t bear the same walls or the same air any longer. Monotony abrades my soul, like skin continuously chafed. I must move to find relief. A shift, a detour from the routine invigorates me.
Tyoma benefits as well. A five minute meltdown is still only five minutes in the span of hours. The same outburst could occur at Market Basket over a coveted candy bar. I am not mad to prefer beach meltdowns over queue meltdowns.
My son inherited my temperament. One day he will feel as I do. He will languish, bored and stifled by even the sweetest existence. At that moment, I hope he will plunge into fresh water and breathe fragrant air, leaving his doldrums behind.