It's 4:30 a.m. and I'm sitting on the couch with Elliott who's getting his fix of peanut butter toast and Mr. Bean. Although he still requires a blankie, struggles to form answers to open-ended questions and says many of his words like he has marbles in his mouth, I have never met a five year old who enjoys and understands humor like Elliott. He sees nuances even most adults might miss. For a long time I thought it was a fluke, that somehow he was just made to laugh at most anything.
When Elliott was nearly two, a neurologist ordered blood draws to test for some of the most severe genetic conditions. She was deeply concerned that our non-talking, non-walking boy was never going to progress beyond the intellectual level of a three year old. The tests, of course, were negative, but the dread of that suspected diagnosis has never fully lifted.
Two weekends ago I pulled out a take-home project from school - a pumpkin his kindergarten teacher suggested we decorate at home and send back to hang in the classroom. I got out some stickers and markers and urged Elliott to do something to the pumpkin. We worked quickly as I knew Elliott would lose interest after a sticker or two and I'd have to restrain myself from decorating the pumpkin myself. When I could see he was finished, I suggested we write his name and I put a marker in his hand and held it in mine.
"No," he said adamantly. "I do by self."
"Okay," I shrugged, expecting a couple little lines and scribbles on the paper.
Instead, Elliott slowly and deliberately wrote out his name, all by himself.
I am embarrassed to admit that name writing, like reading and thoughtfully answering questions, is something I have doubted my son might ever be able to do. Which, I suspect, is the reason I cried when the last T was crossed.
Only God knows what each one of us is capable of. And I am humbled to have the great privilege of witnessing one child becoming so much more than we ever expected.
.JPG)
