Yesterday was a particularly difficult day- special needs-wise. I try not to “vent” or complain too much on Facebook, but there were several times I was tempted to jump on and let the world know and possibly get a little sympathy.
Because some days, I hate autism.
Some days, I scream it out loud.
Ironically, yesterday I happened upon an old TV show, the doctor adamant that “autistics” were intelligent and teachable and not “retarded”.
I turned it off, because it pained me to watch – not just because of the archaic terminology – but wondering about the fact my son has both cognitive delays from Down syndrome and aggressive behaviors I’ve always blamed on autism. Where in the world does that leave us?
Some days I am confused.
Some days I think too much.
Some days I wish he didn’t have both.
Some days I simply don’t know what to do.
Some days I let him get away with too much, using the excuse that he doesn’t understand, because I often don’t know what he does and doesn’t.
Some days I resort to letting him have his way in order to save myself from physical harm.
Some days I sometimes get weary.
Some days I’m just not fast enough to get away and “block” him.
Some days I just don’t feel like doing it all.
Some days I want to scream, “This is so hard!!!” but I don’t want to. Because then all those who think a child like mine shouldn’t be born, or isn’t as worthy as typical children, might have a reason to believe it.
Some days I feel horribly guilty for complaining, because I see on my news feed a little darling with Down syndrome whose parents must say goodbye because of heart defect like my son’s and am so grateful for him.
Some days I don’t want to let anyone know about those ugly parts because he is such a good-natured and loving boy.
Most days.
I have been blessed with and entrusted with much.
Some days I must make myself count all joy and be thankful while in the trenches.
My trenches include teenagers.
Some days they are hard.
Some days, I miss baby and toddler-hood when hurts were little like their squishy bodies I that I could scoop up and hug the hurt away.
And as rocky as these years can be, no one suggests we don’t have children because they one day will be hormonal, emotional and both independent and relying on you all at the same time.
Some days, homeschooling an active nine year-old boy frustrates me into a mom-fit because he would rather do a zillion other things than sit and do math.
But no one suggested I abort him because he was perfect and healthy. Not like my baby seen as damaged and defective by those who will never know him.
Some days, this angers me.
Most days.
Every single day.
Some days, I have to cry out to God for physical and emotional strength. Out loud.
Some days are harder than others.
Just like for everyone.
But then, last night…
As he laid in bed, ready for sleep, that precious little soul who had angered me so earlier pulled my head to his and would not let go.
And all the hard of the day left.
I remembered it no more. Like our Father who remembers it no more when we come as little children, even like those who can’t speak and simply love Him and ask for forgiveness in the only way we know how.
Some days I would live over a thousand times for that one moment.
Some days I need to tell the world that no matter the cost, the price is worth it.
Like today…
