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What Is Wrong With Your Son?


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The question pierced me this morning. Tears fell as I walked away. Sadness filled my heart.

Yet, I came away from the situation renewed and comforted by an understanding bigger than my sadness. I came away knowing that there WAS something wrong with my son.

We waited for the bus(es) to come in the rain. My son's bus comes at 8:11am and my daughter's at 8:13am. His bus takes him to his preschool within another elementary while my daughter attends the elementary school within our boundaries.

The timing of each bus schedule is perfect for us. As soon as I buckle him into his seat and wave goodbye, my daughter's bus turns around the corner to pick the other children up.

However, the moment he began riding the bus to his school it confused a lot of the children since his comes at relatively the same time. Eventually all the children and parents realized that the first bus was just for him.

This morning was the usual. We saw his bus come around the corner and the other children remained playing with the knowledge that it wasn't their turn yet. My son and I said hello to the bus driver and his classmate, buckled the seat belt and gave kisses before I walked back down the steps and out the door. My daughter and I waved through the window while he smiled back, and then she asked if I would stay until her bus arrived a minute later.

As hers was being loaded I chatted lightly with a grandfather about the nasty weather today compared to yesterday's full sunny bloom. He was the epitome of a "mountain man". Gruff on the outside, but you could see he was gentle and kind. He suddenly stepped a little closer and with a slight whisper asked, "I have been meaning to ask.. what is wrong with your son?"

Knowing what kind of man he was I immediately responded without sharpness and said, "oh nothing! He has a speech delay so he attends another school that caters to that." I knew his word of "wrong" simply meant "different." I was casual. I was cool. There was no reason to be offended because offense was not offered to me from him. Just simple curiosity. Unfounded of course, because the only thing different about my son in my eyes is that he attends another school.

We smiled and said our goodbyes and I ran to my car while the sky cried large drops. I closed my door and sat behind my steering wheel.

I couldn't turn on the ignition. The reality of what he said and what I said began caving in on me. I was wounded. My defenses were down. He was right. Unknowingly and unobtrusively right.

I remembered how my son has apraxia. I remembered how my son goes to a classroom only with other children who have delays. I remembered how we have to work with him every day to pronounce syllables correctly and to curb his frustration and to not hit. I remembered that just last month he bit his toes and fingers so badly they bled and he continued to do so regardless. I remembered that he's not like your child.

I had forgotten because what we deal with is the norm for our family. Each stage in his life is all we have ever known for him, and we embrace each and every growth. He's preparing to attend kindergarten in a year. He's preparing to be like everyone else, but he is not. We are hopeful, but right now he is not.

I explained to my MIL through my tears what had transpired. She was nonchalant as well. "But he seems just fine. You would never even think something was wrong," she said.

I know that. He is fine. And we are fine because it is what we know, but we are different. He rides a different bus. He attends a different school. Embracing that difference is what matters most and I know that now.

It was good to be reminded.

I am proud to say that there is something different about my son. Not wrong, but his battle at this point in life is truly and innately his own. Different from anyone else.


I remembered. And I am oh-so-grateful for that.


Carrie is a fan of chocolate. Oh, and a spoon to go with it. You can see more of her wit and wisdom at The Rowdy Stroudy's.



 
Enjoy shopping for quality baby clothing at TradeTang.com

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