December 12, 2010. Nothing I’ve done to squelch the flow or urine at night, whether purposeful on Peter’s part or involuntary, has worked. I literally have zero idea how he’s outmaneuvering us, but I’m nonetheless giving in and raising the white flag in surrender. At this point, I have no idea how we’ll cope with the next ten years or so of nightly bed and pajama soaking; I only pray the output doesn’t rise to the level that it overflows the mattress, leaks onto the floor and eventually splatters the living room below. If that happens, my contingency plan is to design and install a self-cleaning waterproof bubble in which he can sleep, thereby allowing the four of us to continue cohabitating without the threat of ammonia asphyxiation. In the meantime, I need to turn my attention to Christmas and more pleasant preoccupations. We’re scheduled to go into the city on Tuesday to see the Nutcracker and visit Santa at Macy’s. I made the reservations six weeks ago, before Peter’s breakdown. His behavior, meaning his self-control and frustration tolerance, are still well below what we consider his “norm”, and his grip on reality, though not slipping any further, is nowhere near where it was before this happened. I hope he can endure the day’s events, and accompanying excitement, so that all of us, Peter included, can enjoy the experience. Though it’s my most recent, and fervent, Christmas wish, I must admit I’m a little apprehensive. On the way home from Sophie’s swim meet today, Peter asked why I didn’t just jump over all the icy puddles in the road when he heard that my car had slipped earlier that morning. “We’re Rudolph now, Mom. You can fly!”. Lindy gave us a Rudolph car kit for Christmas last year and though I dutifully installed the antlers on the front windows and red nose on the grill, we lost an antler the very first day. All that’s left to adorn our vehicle is the big, red nose on the front. “Really, Mom,” he persists after listening to me explain how tying a red-stuffed nose onto the front of the car doesn’t transform us into Rudolph. “We magic powers now.” At this juncture, I don’t dare argue with him or even try to restate my point – he’s been very combative lately when someone challenges his fanciful ideas, and so I let the matter slide and signal Sophie to do the same. She gets the message and stops trying to convince him of the folly of his thinking, but she resents the request and makes sure I’m looking as she roll her eyes and proffers an ominous, low growl. To de-escalate the mounting tension, I turn on the radio, hoping for a Christmas tune. Instead, Peter’s nemesis of a song is playing, and I find myself laughing over the sheer absurdity of what was about to unfold. “Mom,” he pipe’s up, exactly on cue. “That is not a nice song you are hearing.” He’s talking about “I Shot the Sheriff” by Eric Clapton. “I can see why you’d say that,” I respond, having heard this lament at least a hundred times before. My favorite radio station plays this song often. I’m seriously considering calling the manager and asking them to delete it from their playlist. “The sheriff would not like that,” he continues. “Oh come on,” Sophie bellows, unable to tolerate an iota more of this Who’s on First routine. “It’s not a REAL sheriff, Peter! It’s just a S-O-N-G, get it?” Despite her obnoxious tone, I can’t get mad at her. It bugs me, too. As in R-E-A-L-L-Y bugs me, but he can’t help it. He’s completely black and white right now – even more than usual, and as inflexible as a flagpole in his thinking. The other day he orchestrated the perfect storm in the playroom, throwing toys, furniture and other objects against the walls and across the room, all because Lindy wanted him to acknowledge that it doesn’t always snow at Christmastimes but every now and then it snows over the Thanksgiving holidays. This threw a wrench in his rigid construct regarding the seasons – “the leaves fall down at Thanksgiving, the snow comes at Christmas”, and that’s all it took. Lindy said she was about to “take him down” in one of her last resort restraints because Sophie was on the verge of getting hurt, but somehow this was avoided. Though licensed and certified to restrain a child who is in danger of harming self or others, Lindy’s as wary as we are of CPS after the school psychologist fabricated abuse charges back in the “Pre-Due Process Victory Era”. Despite Peter’s significant setbacks however, I’m still returning to good cheer, and I want to count my blessings. Peter was an angel today – a polite, model citizen during Sophie’s swim meet, and he kept himself nicely together for the rest of the afternoon, until dinnertime, when he fell apart again. It’s the best day we’ve had with him since early November. Pat’s upstairs, showering Peter, and Sophie’s dropping chocolate chip cookies on a cookie sheet. She’s handed her baby doll over to me to “babysit” as she works, and I can’t help but grin as I listen to her belt “Deck the house with balls of Howie”, more or less in time with the CD playing in the background. I’ll stop writing now because she needs me to put the cookies in the oven and we have a family date to watch A Charlie Brown Christmas in front of the fireplace together. I’ve always had a soft spot for Charlie Brown. Maybe because he was meant to remind me, even when I was a child, of the son I’d one day have. After all, except for the not so small matter of fetal alcohol, those two boys have a lot in common.