On Monday, Elliott set off for preschool. Not the quaint neighborhood elementary school we're districted for, but the sprawling building with special ed teachers and therapists and aides a couple miles away. This year he'll even be taking the bus home. Starting today.
Every day this week I've dropped him off with a lump in my throat, watching him enter door 35 next to the girl with down syndrome and the boy in leg braces. It doesn't help that he cries.
During the summer, Elliott didn't seem much different from the two and three year olds he played with. But he's four, and when it comes to age-appropriate skills and school readiness, he lags pretty far behind.
Still, we have seen so much progress this year: spontaneous speech, alphabet singing, color matching. He can scale play structures with the best of them. And we're sure he'll be potty trained eventually.
Thanks to a skilled OT and an excellent book on sensory issues, we've been giving him a daily diet of wrestling, tickling, joint compressions and deep pressure massage. And sugar almost never passes his lips. We feel like we're getting somewhere.
But on Monday afternoon as I sat watching Elliott float and kick in his Ortho Kids Aquatics class, with a handful of other kids struggling with neurological conditions, I pushed back the tears realizing that this might always be his tribe.
In a pocket of my mind, I keep the thought that if we hold Elliott back a year, he'll catch up and enter kindergarten as a normal kid with his neighborhood friends at our neighborhood school. Frequently, I sneak this thought out of that pocket, like a little stone, and hold it, smooth and round, close to my heart.
On our daily walk to door 35, however, I accept that this may not be. Elliott may always ride the bus home from the big sprawling school, with wonderful teachers and therapists who see both his limitations and his potential. He may always be lagging behind.
Someone once said that parenting is just "a long goodbye." I'm guessing they meant that from the moment your child is born, he begins the process of leaving you. But I also think it refers to the heart-wrenching ordeal of unclenching your fist and letting go of how you wish things could be. Then eventually skipping that stone across the river and finding a new one to pocket.
4 comments:
Oh, this one was felt so so deep inside all places within. Your soul is so felt here about Elliot.
I was so struck by his growth and couldn't believe that was him in the picture. I hope his year there will be filled with joy with his friends. You have so much hope and love Amy.
So beautiful, Amy! He looks so much like you. You are such a fabulous mom. xo
What a beautiful love story for your family! You describe the unshakable love & hope that each mother has for their children, and the "round stone" that has the potential to skip across water and land in just the perfect spot. Hold fast to your round stone, I'm watching from next door and I believe in all four of you. Andrew's account of the 'bike trail ride' proves that Elliott's speech has improved along with more complex thought related to humor!
thank you, ladies! I appreciate your words.
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