Friday night and the gang's all here

I'm sitting in the living room, my monitor the only light. Outside the window, I hear the low thrum of cars passing by. The heat kicks in with a soft whoosh. It's a rare moment of calm.

I took Isaac to dinner tonight, while J. went to a colleague's retirement party at school. We sat at the Pac-Man table, munching chicken (for him), a burger (for me) and fries (for both of us). At times like this, I feel a heightened sense of awareness of who we are: a young boy and his mother out for a meal together. It feels both reassuringly normal, and slightly momentous: will he slip? Will there be a tantrum? Or will we sit companionably, Isaac sneaking fries off my plate when he thinks I'm not looking? I wanted the older couple at the next table to notice him, to comment on his near-perfect manners: to see what's under the waterline and tell me that we're going to be okay.

I don't know why, but it seemed important tonight somehow.

Isaac's eyes welled with tears this morning as I dropped him at school. Even now, when most children are well past the separation anxiety, I can feel his tug of uncertainty as I pull away for the day. Can't it just be like this, me sitting in your lap, you smoothing my hair and telling me silly stories? Do you have to go to work? Won't you just take me home, where we can play and nap and shut out the world together?

It's almost eerie. I remember that feeling as a child: the sense that the rigor of daily life was just too much sometimes: the discipline of up, shower, dress, eat, pack lunch, go, sit, sit, recess, sit, eat, sit, sit, home, play, dinner, dishes, bed--too complicated and deeply, deeply unfair. I feel that way still.

And it makes me wonder about the true impact of Isaac's challenges: whether, as he grows older and builds his capacity to cope with the barrage of input that comes at him from all sides, he'll emerge even more, become even more expressive, loosen up and start to communicate more fluidly and with less anxiety. I don't know. I hope so. The milestones are coming, even if sometimes they appear as if in a funhouse mirror.

Tomorrow we have a few plans. We'll take it easy. We are trying so hard not to limit our life, not to set too many tight boundaries, even as we vow not to bombard him. The line shifts daily, even hourly.

We pick our way over the path, sliding on the gravel, avoiding the larger roots, an occasional stumble, an occasional sharp pebble in the shoe.

Comments

[kristen]

Susan, this sounds so familiar. I wish we could predict what the future holds. Instead, we struggle in the present to keep things even, to shine a light, to find out way.

There may be countless miles between us, but, we are on the same path.

[Niksmom]

And you are doing a fine, fine job of making your way over that uneven terrain, Susan.

I completely agree with you; there are days when it just feels like the right thing to do is snuggle in at home with my boy and close out the rest of the world. So we do...for a short while. Nik is getting better at letting me know (showing me) when he needs more. I suspect Isaac is finding his own balance and feeling the fatigue some days...especially at the end of the week, perhaps?

Sending you warm wishes for a Happy Mother's Day! xoxo

[Special Needs Mama]

Lovely--and you remind me that even my NT 11 year old is fading rapidly in the draining days of her own school year. Balance is so hard to achieve.

[drama mama]

Oh I get this.

You've got good shoes. You'll make it over the rough terrain. xo

[TC]

Must be the time of year. I just recently wrote about how my 7-year-old first grader told me he doesn't want to go back to school next year, that "you should teach me at home." Breaks my heart, especially since his practically-defines-the-word 'typical' sister adores school. I want the same for him, and it may not be in the cards.