The Smells and Sounds of RAD on the Move

Tomorrow is Moving Day, and I am reasonably sure I will not last until the end of it. My father is coming Saturday with the explicit assignment of Stroking My Hair While I Cry.

The regression is so thick here you can smell it. Literally. Did you know RAD has an odor? I didn't, either, until a couple other RAD moms mentioned it here or there, and I realized, that pe.e-like smell that gets stronger on the bad days and doesn't go away even if I shower her? It's RAD.

Speaking of pe.e. All the progress from the last six months? It's gone. Gone. Just. Gone. I'm trying to handle it as matter-of-factly as possible, but, ARGH!!!

And, I'm not sure, because I didn't actually see her do it, but I'm pretty sure Princess poured her brain in a blender, whirred it around, put it in a storage container, and tucked it in the back of the freezer for another time because

It's gone. Gone. Just. Gone.

The manipulation. I had a very matter-of-fact conversation at the new house about bike riding, specifically about how children who don't use the toilet are usually kept very close to their mothers, so, while I do get her need to not use the toilet right now, there will be no bike-riding-down-the-road until said need has passed. The conversation was not well received. So, as soon as my visiting mother was in the room, guess what Princess asked with no outward indication of having heard previous conversation? Yep. Because, unfortunately, the Mommy has been guilty of not wanting to appear hard, controlling, callous, mean, and weird in front of other adults, and Princess picked up on that weakness looooooong before I did. And of course, keeping her close to me means I'm mean, stupid, ugly, and don't take care of her. According to Princess, anyway.

The rages. Oh, my aching muscles, the rages. I got a bite two weeks ago that is only now not visible. Peanut has a black eye with a good sized cut underneath. I have to repeat, "don't get triggered, don't get triggered," over and over in my head while saying out loud things like, "this is hard. I'm right here," and, "I'm really sorry, Honey, but you'll have to find a way to breathe/get comfortable/itch/pe.e without hitting/pinching/biting/kicking me."

I know she'll get it back, but I'm not truly convinced that knowledge is making this any easier or less heart-breaking. Right now all I can think of is how very, very much I'd like someone else to clean my new whirlpool tub for me so I can sink into it down to my eyes and not come out, ever. Or until the water's cold.

But I can't.

Because Princess is asking for the sixth time for the location of  the paint I told her I packed and moved to the new house. She's trying really hard to make a different answer come out of my mouth, and I don't think she's going to give up any time soon.