My Life Elevating Younger Youngsters
Here we go again.
I ask my son to eat his breakfast for the tenth time.
Questions spill out of him faster than I can answer — reasons, rituals, invisible tasks his brain insists must come first. A million distractions orbit him. I don’t even think it has registered that there is food in front of him, or that his body is hungry. But he is hungry, nonetheless.
I spit out another reminder, this one sharpened at the edges with frustration. I know I should be calm. Patience always works best — except when it doesn’t. Some days it feels like nothing works. Not gentleness. Not firmness. Not the version of me I try so hard to be.
His younger brother spots a toy abandoned on the floor and picks it up, innocent in the simple way younger siblings are — he just wants to play.
I see it before it happens, steam practically rising from my eldest like a cartoon about to erupt. The scream. The charge. A growl too wild for such a small body.
[Read: The Exhaustion Problem in Extreme Parenting]
His hand lifts and lands hard against his brother’s face. The sound seems louder than it should be. The little one hits the floor, and the air leaves him in a broken gasp before the tears arrive.
Now there are explanations, consequences, and a timeout. And now my two sons are screaming. The youngest because he has been hurt, and the oldest because he has been stopped.
“I hate you, Mum.”
The words come through gritted teeth, and they break my heart every single time. I try to ignore them, but they keep coming, each one sharper than the last.
I scoop the little one into my arms. “He can’t control his big feelings yet, honey,” I tell him about his neurodivergent brother. “Sometimes they spill out into hitting hands. I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
Then the baby cries.
[Read: “How to End Sibling Fighting Peacefully”]
Only eight months in this world and already fluent in urgency. Surely it can’t be nap time — she just woke up, didn’t she? I glance at the clock. Two hours have passed since I first said, “Please eat your breakfast.”
The house comes into focus all at once — toys scattered like confetti, stuffing from a slaughtered teddy trailing across the floor courtesy of the dog, laundry slumped in the corner, dishes stacked dangerously high, the kitchen island buried beneath clutter.
I don’t know where to begin.
The baby needs sleep. The chores need doing. My eldest is still simmering, striking out at everyone — myself included. I am trying my best. Still, I feel like I am drowning.
The dog barks at the postman, startling the baby into louder cries. I rock her gently. She eventually softens. Feeds. Sleeps. At last — quiet.
The boys sit absorbed in their screens while their sister rests. The dog snores at my feet. The house is finally still, but the mess presses down on my shoulders like a weight I cannot shrug off.
Inside my head, a relentless narrator begins its daily recital: Everything you haven’t done. Everything you should be doing. Everything you are failing to be.
Other moms manage. Why can’t you? You should exercise. Eat better. Be more patient. Be more organized. Be more. Be more. Be more.
But I am exhausted. Drained down to the marrow. I look around at the chaos, the silence, the impossible list of things waiting for me. I’ve already had enough, and it’s only 11 a.m.
Raising Neurodivergent Children: Next Steps
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