Isaac is in the bath. He looks up at me suddenly, grinning, thinking of something. His hand darts under the water to one of his toy cups, which he fills with bathwater. He brings it to his lips, still grinning, looking directly into my eyes. I pour it back into the tub. "Isaac," I say, "we don't drink bathwater. It'll make your tummy hurt." He looks a little put out. "I want to eat water," he protests, trying to wrestle the cup away from me.
He's three and a half now, and this little interaction is full of miracles. I can't help myself from cataloguing them, a bit obsessively, I admit. 1) he has a plan; 2) he knows I won't agree with said plan; 3) he thinks that's funny and tries it anyway; 4) wow--great eye contact; 5) when he doesn't get his way, he tries a new strategy; 7) hey--he's never said that before!; 8) when words don't work, he tries brute force.
Good planning, pal. Way to play your Mommy.
Most parents would find this little sequence cute, possibly a little exasperating, but not worthy of a trip down the hall to tell Dad (much less a blog post...we are not such navel-gazers after all). But in it I see intelligence, and humor, and theory of mind, and ease, and mischief, and hope, and I know we're luckyluckylucky to have a child who is capable of all these incredible, brilliant, ordinary little things.
There are times when I nearly forget it all--the evaluations and diagnoses, the endless therapies, the total lack of privacy (half of the Bay Area's special needs professionals have seen me in my pajamas, or worse, by this point), the uncertain future, the constant minute deconstruction of his every utterance and accomplishment and what it means, and what it could mean, and, and, and, and, and.
After awhile, Isaac looks up at me and says, "I want to read Dr. Seuss." So I get him out of the bath, towel him off, put on his nighttime diaper and help him put on his pajamas, and we sit on the bed and open up Oh, The Places You'll Go! And I try just to read, and not to think about anything in particular, enjoying his enjoyment, and his company, and his warm soapy smell.
Comments