Today was one of those days. It was a day where my head was in a fog. Steve is gone this week...really he's gone all month...save the weekends. But last night was his first night away from home. And Max was happy to keep me company...all...night...long.
Because of this, I was slow going all day. But I had plenty to do. I had to get Max ready for therapy, and me ready. I had to feed him, and something I neglected far too much last week, I had to feed myself. And it felt like my early day was me literally telling myself out-loud what to do next. Just, one of those days.
When we got to therapy today, my back was really hurting. I got Max out of his car-seat, and into his stroller. I noticed a mom next to me doing the same with her son. I wondered if her back hurt too. I was sure it did. He was bigger than Max, and his chair was definitely a lot heavier.
After I signed Max in, I went over to ask this mom about her son's wheelchair. It was the exact one we tried Max in yesterday. I thought it would be better to get this mother's opinion, rather than the salesman who was trying to sell it to us. When I asked her if she liked the chair, she smiled and said, "I hate it.". Then she laughed. She told me that she was only kidding...kind of. She said, "it's just so heavy!" She said, "but look at him...he sits so well in it! and of course one day, maybe he'll sit on his own...but for now he needs help...and this is the best choice."
That's when her son's therapist came out, and ours came out to meet us. Max did amazingly in therapy. He didn't cry, and sat up by himself twice. He worked hard to stand up, and was generally happy the whole time. But there was a moment. A split moment that made the foggy first part of the day go away. And made me so proud of my son I could burst.
He was sitting facing me, with his arms resting on the table in front of him, readying himself before he chose if he was going to play the piano toy, or the drum toy. And it struck me, what a very simple task this was for a nearly 5 year old boy. In that same moment, I noticed in myself this urging...this silent cheer...a cheer for him to try...try harder...you can do it. Reach out your little hand and hit one of the toys. Either one, it doesn't matter, but I know...I KNOW you can do it.
And then he did. He made a deliberate, although quite disorganized movement towards the keyboard, and slammed his hand down. And it was an awful noise. A terrible racket. But it was such an accomplishment. And he knew it. And he was proud. He turned to look at his therapist and he smiled. And turned to look and me and then my cheer was heard. "Great job buddy, Mommy knew you could do it!".
And tonight as I think of that, I remembered the mom in the waiting room, KNOWING that some day her wheelchair bound son would sit. And then of all the parents I see from day to day in the waiting rooms of doctors and therapists. We're all in this secret club. No one knows the secret knock to join, but once you've fallen through the trap-door, you're a member for life.
I thought of the unimaginable hope that parents with special children have. It is an incredible love. An unmovable patience. A complete unyielding to the idea that maybe one day...they'll walk, or run, or sit on their own, or talk, or feed themselves...but an absolute realism that it may never happen...and that's okay too.
Because we're the lucky ones. We're the ones who get to see the everyday miracles. And in those waiting rooms, and in those hallways passing, we share the victories, and with a little smile, cheer our silent cheers to them, and to their kids...Keep trying...I know you can do it.
(To read through all of these inspirational posters to parents of special needs children, just click on the pictures.)
