I hear Justin’s yellow chariot about a block before it reaches my driveway, and make a mental note to tell his bus driver to check the brakes. It’s freezing outside (as usual this winter), so I wrap my warm woolen scarf tightly around my neck before I shove Cosmo into my coat pocket and step out of the warm cocoon of my car. I navigate pockets of the relentless ice plaguing my driveway and follow the carefully carved path my husband has created for us, and I hear my son well before the bus stops.
Within moments he is greeting me at the top of the steps with his aide close behind. As usual I thank his chauffeurs and make room for him to descend, grabbing his backpack as he moves from towering over me to mere inches from my diminutive height. I smile and say “Hi Justin” as I have done for years, but with perhaps more emphasis as I am trying to generalize a reciprocal greeting his speech therapist is attempting to teach him at school.
I anticipate a sofly emitted “hi” or a mad dash for the door for his coveted soft pretzel, but today is different. Today my severely autistic son looks me straight in the eye, and with a hint of a smile says “Hi Mommy,” then grabs my scarf and leans in to plant a big kiss right on my lips. It is the first time he has ever put two words together for me with or without being prompted.
Too soon the moment is over, then there’s still the mad dash for those carbs. He is so my child.
We’re starting to elicit a few words from Justin after ten long years of speech therapy, ABA rewards, and my working with him whenever possible. Over the last few months we’ve begun to hear coveted consonants such as “t” and “p,” sounds initially evoked only within the confines of his school or therapist’s home, now reproduced on demand for me. We’re slowly building a vocabulary me and my boy, one which even includes saying “pop” as a fill-in from his favorite Eric Carle creation.
It is thrilling to hear these words and word approximations, and I know as soon as we’ve shed shoes and scarves I’ll yell our triumph to my husband upstairs, and run to the phone to call my mom. There will be an email chaser to his private speech therapist and to the school speech therapist who has been working so diligently on this skill, taking the time to film me greeting my son on his ipad, and carefully rewarding his attempts with my homemade chocolate chip cookies that defy my usual ineptness with all things kitchen-related.
In a few moments I’ll be besieged by requests for juice and snacks from both of my children, will find myself tripping over hats, coats and mittens as I navigate our narrow hallway. There will be the daily homework struggle/bribe with my youngest, voluminous paperwork from their respective schools to pore over, lunchboxes to unpack. In short, the McCafferty clan will soon be immersed in its daily organized chaos.
But I won’t allow it to happen before I take the time to savor this moment.
There have been some really difficult periods in this household. I have two boys with autism, and both have undergone months or even years where silence ruled our world, gastrointestinal distress claimed the day, and sleep was an unreachable luxury. We’ve also endured periods where my eldest expressed his emotions primarily through aggression, with medication, therapy, and love incapable of providing any respite.
In the past there have been weeks where I’ve been struggling to make it through the end of the hour, much less the day at hand. Throughout these challenging times I’ve generally been able to invoke my mantra of “This too shall pass,” one of my beloved grandma’s favorite maxims that for our lives at least, seems to hold true. Those four words have been the touchstone that have help me transcend our troubles, minister to my boys, trade frustration for an embrace.
I guess you could say those words are my personal hashtag.
We go through cycles of frustration here, but what I’m finally beginning to remember as we now rarely descend into darkness that for us, these difficulties always pass. Thankfully, the stomach issues which plagued both boys have all but disappeared. The all-elusive sleep I longed for both me and my sons almost always graces our presence nightly, bringing much-needed rest and respite from the day. Through a variety of strategies, and perhaps mostly maturity, my eldest son has learned to quell his frustrations, now resorts to his iPad or even a word or two to get his needs met.
And yes, despite years where all of our queries met our son with silence, we are finally being graced with the mecca of the spoken word.
I hear my youngest bellow for “juice!” and realize my moment for contemplation is now on hold, to be shelved and savored for later. Soon pretzels will be distributed, beverages will be poured, and the minutiae of a day away discussed. My eldest will escape upstairs to his coveted computer, and I’ll tussle with my youngest about exchanging jeans for his karate outfit. Our life, “normal” as we know it, will take over.
But I promise myself this before I am swept up. I have goals for my sons, some of which like speech have seemed impossible to achieve, unattainable brass rings. My boys constantly shatter my preconceptions of what they can achieve, resist any limitations I might unconsciously impose upon them. They will continue to learn. They will continue to grow. On their own paths and in their own time, progress will continue to be made.
And each and every time they achieve success, their momma must remember to savor the moment.
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