We interrupt this program...

... to bring you a pity party.

I think, for the most part, I'm able to have some perspective regarding my path in life. After all, I do have an amazing husband, two miracles living with us, and a warm home. Despite the challenges that come with a pre-teen boy and a special needs chick, life is awesome.

Most of the time, Brian gets the only invitation to my pity parties. Lucky guy. That should be part of the vows: "I, Brian, take you, Donna, in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, and I promise to attend every pity party you host." I like the sound of that.

This week, I've thrown myself a fairly nice pity party. Complete with balloons and streamers.

Here are the details:

Olivia isn't going to sleep until really late. I know this isn't something new, but therein lies the point: It sure is getting old.

Routine: Late-at-night arrives. Olivia placed in crib. Donna or Brian on the floor beside crib. Olivia gets mad and hits her head on the rails. Floor parent fusses and puts too-small-helmet on O's head. Olivia tries to hit her head some more and cries for a minute until she realizes we aren't going to give her attention (thanks be to the too-small-helmet). Olivia shifts gears and begins singing and jabbering. Loudly. Tiredness overcomes floor parent, and sleep wins out over the loud girl. Minutes or hours pass, and the floor parent awakes to a sleeping child and aching bones. (I don't know about Brian, but usually I manage to contort myself into such a position that one of my limbs has decreased blood flow and is all prickly. That doesn't help during the middle-of-the-night sleepwalking trek to the bedroom.)

Sometimes- and I swear she does it on purpose- the floor parent will awake to a poopy diaper.

Salt in the wound.

This week, my son and I have had very few conversations. Instead, I've managed to yell and fuss and argue with a child who has proceeded to whine, pout, and disobey.

At the end of the day, he still kisses me goodnight. I love that sweet boy.

Olivia's new passion is to empty the kitchen cabinets and drawers. Enter my kitchen at any point of the evening and you will need to watch your step. You might find yourself with a twisted ankle from stepping on the heart-shaped cookie cutter or the meat thermometer. Yes, we could lock up the cabinets or block her entry into the room.

Have you ever heard my daughter when she is upset? I won't do it justice by describing it in words, but here goes: She starts with this whiny cry and will add in this slurred "Duh", spoken as if she is cursing you. If that doesn't do the trick, she'll usually throw in a few head bangs for good measure.

When you're already in the midst of a pity party, this can be like nails on a chalkboard.

So, we tend to let her empty the cabinets when she wants. Note to visitors: you might want to wash anything from our kitchen that you think is in O's reach before using it. I'm just saying.

Olivia also enjoys pinching and scratching. Who needs a cat, or a pet crab for that matter, when you can have my girl? Olivia's clawing goes hand in hand with many of her emotions. Excitement, anger, frustration. She's a four-and-a-half year old who is hitting the Terrible Two's.

She saves the best clawing for me. I really wouldn't mind sharing the joy of these attacks with others. Really.

When Brian is at work, it becomes overwhelmingly clear that I am alone. Alone. With a growing child who is already difficult to hold when she's mad, already tough to restrain when she is clawing and banging her head, already tough to bathe and carry upstairs. I suddenly find myself terrified of the future and my mind spins out of control thinking about all of the possible ways I can fail at being the momma of a special-needs child.

Then the pity party kicks into high gear. Why me? Us? Her? Why can't I be rich enough to hire help every third night? If she would only go to sleep a little while before me, maybe I could have time to regroup and breathe before we do it all again the next day. These thoughts stretch themselves past rational thinking and the bigger struggles work their way into my mind... Will she ever walk? Will she always wear diapers? Will she end up in a group home when she's grown? Thoughts that have no business creeping their way into my life are quick to join my pity party if the door is cracked the slightest bit...

The internet rocks. Other blogging mommas rock. So, one particularly bad evening this week, I spent some time searching for some special-needs mommas who I knew would have the words I needed to hear. And they did not let me down. I read and cried and prayed and hoped- and wiped my tears so I could see the screen and do it all over again. I've joined a sorority of kindred spirits. Special-needs mommas who grieve and love and dream. Mommas who throw pity parties when they must, and then wipe their tears and go back to enjoying the good stuff of this life.

Last night marked the end of this pity party week. Brian brought O, picked up J from school, and met me at Target. A little family shopping and then we headed to Craker Barrel (Quackl Bell, according to Jake). We waited for a table for about 25-30 minutes, and Brian and I took shifts with O in the car (after carrying her around in the store for a while). When it was finally time to be seated, I picked up O from her carseat and found her pants to be soaked. Side note: My girl can hold her pee like no one I know. Dry diaper for hours and then a flood.

No extra outfit. Yes, that's right. Twenty degree temperatures and we are pantless. Since we feel like Jacob often has to take the backseat to Olivia's needs, Brian and Jake stayed and enjoyed Quackl Bell while Olivia and I headed home.

Hours later, after deciding that I deserved some chocolate chip muffins for dinner- then finding that we didn't have any, which resulted in a pity party meltdown, my sweet husband went to Walmart and bought me some muffin mix. He said my dinner wasn't going to be ruined twice in one night. I love him. More than life.

It's Saturday. While I reserve the right to leave up the balloons and streamers for an impromptu pity party, I'm trying to make today a new day. I'm still in my jammies and I had chocolate chip muffins for breakfast. Olivia has cluttered the living room and kitchen floors many times over already today, and it's only lunchtime. So be it. Jake is at Sonjia's and he has a birthday party sleepover this evening, so maybe he'll enjoy some time away from his mean momma and we can start fresh tomorrow.

We had a two-hour delay yesterday morning, and I was watching part of a West Wing episode with Brian. I had seen the episode before, but there was a line I don't remembering hearing.

I think the best day's gotta be the next day. Life is all... "what's next?" It's like those billboards where, before the actual ad goes up, they put in, in big block letters... "Watch this space."

I'm excited to see what's next.