In June, I left my job. In September, we learned that our son Micah had some fairly moderate developmental delays. In November we were jolted into this new reality of having a "child with disabilities"...or at least that's what I keep hearing. When did my son become "disabled"? And why does everyone use these new politically correct terms to communicate about children with special needs? It is all so overwhelming! Let's backup...
Micah is an amazing kid...my firstborn...he is just a huge chunk of my heart that spilled out into the form of a little boy. Raising him these 3 1/2 little years has not been easy...we've had tantrums, night terrors, spiritual warfare, and all kinds of crazy stuff. I've always wondered if there was something going on in him that I couldn't quite put my finger on. But then again, I was a first time mom and EVERYTHING was unfamiliar. Fast forward to September 2012 when we took Micah in for his 3 year old well child visit. The doctor spent about 5 minutes with him and said "you need to schedule an appointment with a developmental pediatrician and neurologist". My response: "Why?, what the heck is a developmental pediatrician?" I actually had to google it. As it turns out, there are waiting lists for these doctors that stretch out to a year! I'm choosing to believe that God was working...and we got him in 45 days later. In the meantime, my once boring and mundane schedule was flipped into a hurried mess of assessments, testing, interviews, conferences, research, tears, anxiety...shall I continue? Through it all, our experience has been pretty positive. I know that God has gone before us and mapped out a path that is full of caring and knowledgeable people that just love my son. He is growing! He seems pretty happy! (as long as his daddy doesn't leave town) I, on the other hand, am a bit of a mess. I had enough pressure on me trying to raise two toddlers, let alone the fact that even playing has to be work for my 3 year old son. In addition to keeping the house running, having a life in ministry, meeting the needs of my marriage, trying to still remain a woman, and being a mother...now I'm constantly pressured with "Is he saying this wrong? Fix your posture! Am I doing the right thing? What if I'm pushing him too hard? Use your spoon! Jump! Finish! Stop screaming! Will you hate me when you're grown? Am I ruining any chance of you having healthy attachment to relationships in the future? Oh, by the way, do you know that I love you even though I'm acting like a crazy lunatic whose brain jumped out of her head about 3 months ago? I'm sorry...mommy's learning too..." Yeah, just call me Christy Train-Wreck Samms...that's who I've become.
So, our days went from trying to figure out how to keep two toddlers entertained all day until Daddy came home...to...a flurry of preschool, OT, PT, and speech therapy. I constantly receive "advice" and "encouragement" from people who really feel like they know what they're talking about...sometimes it really rattles me. Often I am barraged with terms that I've never heard of, I'm grasping for the politically correct term to refer to a child in fear of offending someone, and let's face it...there just isn't enough time to google everything. The medical bills are mounting...and at the end of the day crying just doesn't always seem to be enough. My body is physically exhausted, and we already talked about where my brain is...sometimes I just want to grab my son into my arms and just escape back into the world where ignorance was bliss. Funny, when I was deciding to leave my job I was wondering if I could handle all the down time. It's a good thing that God knows what he's doing.
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