Yeah. Probably not.
Things have been ramping up with The Boy lately. More tantrums and angry outbursts and kicking walls. More falling apart over small things. All of our structure is failing him. I have been ending most days in tears myself. So at the psychiatrist's office yesterday we discuss options. The med that seems to work the best for him is all ready causing some undesirable side effects. We decide to give a morning dose of a different medication. I decide to keep him with me in the morning rather than send him to school so I can monitor how the medication effects him.
\That? That was a really good decision.
It started on the way home from an errand. It is 10:30am and The Boy requests a milkshake. I suggest a less sugar laden alternative, but he is fixated on the milkshake. First the crying. Then the kicking, Then he is hitting the car window. I know immediately it is the new med - the character of the tantrum is different. It is like his usual tantrum, but on steroids. I know we are just going to have to ride it out. I murmur words of comfort while musing about whether or not it would be better if I were driving the window-less General Lee, or if he would jump right out if there were no windows and if it would mean I would have to wear Daisy Dukes which would just be wrong. For everyone involved. Sigh. Whatever it takes to get home.
Except getting home didn't help. He just got worse and worse and worse. And nothing I was doing was calming him. He was running out the door in a complete rage when I called the police. Again. I waited on the line while the officers looked for him. When they told me an officer spotted him, I hung up and waited.
It took a while, but eventually the squad cars pulled up, and brought The Boy to the door. In handcuffs. I was not upset. I mean, I was upset, but not specifically about the handcuffs. I figured they were trying to get a point across.
I provided a quick history about the meds and the milkshake and The Sheriff's Deputy begins his lecture.
"First of all, you never, ever hit a police officer."
"Second of all, you never, ever kick an officer in the nu...I mean ba...I mean, you know what I mean."
My mental image shifts. Forget the General Lee. I need to be as anonymous as possible. God forbid I ever get pulled over. "Aren't you the lady with the kid who kicked me in the nu...I mean ba...I mean, you know what I mean?"
I pretty much don't remember the rest of the lecture. I was contemplating whether I would need to move to a new neighborhood where we are not THAT family and where the police do not have an, ahem, visceral memory of us.
The Boy was relieved to get the cuffs off. He showed the officer a scratch on his finger he thinks he obtained during the tussle. The deputy was not quite sympathetic, but did suggest he behave because maybe Mom would take him out for that milkshake later.
Wow. That is one forgiving cop.
The Boy was feeling much better better and apologized and moved on to lunch and an origami magic wand. I also tried to apologize.
"I'm really sorry my boy kicked you in the nu...I mean...ba...I mean, you know what I mean."