My youngest.
He kills me.
He loves his school, we all know that. The first words out
of his mouth each morning, before his eyes are even open, are about his beloved
school. He loves it. The boy lives, eats and breathes school. Which we all
love.
So one would expect a boy who’s on his way to his happy
place to be the picture of enthusiasm and joy. Right? Not so much. Well, almost
never. Most days see me walking my boy through the process of getting ready for
school, with a little too much support. Ok, way too much support.
More days than not, my very physically capable nine year old
not only needs me to pick out his clothes, but also get him dressed, wiggly toddler
style. Bless his teachers who don’t blink an eye when I hand them his shoes,
meds, and soggy cereal that were just a little too much to handle, and not
really worth starting a war over.
With that in mind, when a morning starts with a bright eyed
boy who comes to the kitchen on his own, finishes the breakfast that mom made without
a fight, and goes to find something to wear with minimal prompting you can bet
this mama having her own personal dance party in a private corner of her brain.
Because the boy found
something to wear. Without playing the wiggly toddler game that hates.
And the BOY. GOT.
DRESSED.
Did you get that my people?
And hope dares to invade.
Perhaps we’re beginning to see the fruit of our labor. All the
hours of wrestling the boy into submission. The countless second chances we’ve
given him to get it right. The untold fears we’ve calmed with our consistent and
predictable behavior.
Perhaps we’ve stumbled on the proper combination of
medication, attachment practice, self soothing practice, and so forth.
Or perhaps it will all hit the fan halfway to school. And my
boy will show up worn out from screaming for a good 10 minutes of the trip.
But today there is no soggy cereal dripping all over my
kitchen table from a boy who waited for his chance to create chaos when Mom
wasn’t looking.
And today my boy said “Mom are you ok?” after accidentally
bumping into me. (Ok, he did panic for about 30 seconds before he was able to
make that verbalization, but the fact that he did make it is a huge victory for
him)
Wanna celebrate with me? There’s a party in the back of my
brain.
3 comments:
PARTY ON! I'm happy with you :)
Yay :)
I did my student teaching in an elementary school mild to moderate special needs classroom. Some of the kids had ADD, ADHD, Bipolar Disorder, and language barriers. I have to agree with Elissa, that times came that both frustrated me and made me feel like a role model for these kids. I am Bipolar MYSELF, so working with one child in that class in particular, taught me tons of stuff about having to live a CHILDHOOD with the disease. I was not diagnosed with the disease until after I turned 20. I thought it was hard for me then, to keep on studying in college, but I learned then, that it would have been even harder for this little boy to concentrate in the medium sized classroom he was a student in.
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