He ain't heavy

Being "different" is okay, I tell myself. I have always felt like an outsider, a little unusual, listening to a drumbeat somewhere outside of the norm. I have always completed tasks in a unique but — in my eyes —  ultimately successful way. I understood that while I was not always understood, I was always confident enough in myself to be okay with it. I always imagined my children would be much the same, making their own decisions about what is right or wrong or in fashion or in need of changing, listening to their own hearts rather than some preconceived notion of what was "normal." Yet when I find that my child really is "different", the word takes on a new and painful meaning. It conjures up labels that no one wants applied to their child, visions of playground altercations and name-calling, his slowly dawning awareness of what he can't do versus celebrating all that he can do, and a new focus on "what is normal" and learning outcomes that are provided to us on an accusatory piece of yellow paper. Sometimes, when applied to the sweet five-year old you would lay your life down for, "different" is just scary.

With the help of professionals, we are in the process of defining some of the learning challenges that Shawn Joaquin faces; while a very bright and imaginative kid, sometimes concepts are unintelligible to him and thus are met with a verbal straight-arm: "I can't do it. No. No. No."  I watch his sister immediately grasp these same concepts and I start to blame myself for not seeing much sooner that Shawn Joaquin was on a different path, so blinded was I by my overwhelming love and confidence in his rank as the smartest, sweetest and most beautiful boy in the world. 

Part of the cognitive assessment process is starting with where your child is and looking at his strengths; I appreciate this approach immensely not only because it reminds me of all of the best pieces of Shawn Joaquin but allows me to share them with someone without being called a braggart or even just a boor. His imagination, poetic nature, passion and interest in hearing every story about my misguided youth are appreciated and lauded. His ability to sit for hours and "read" books, his enthusiasm for dancing and all things with rhythm — even if he has none of his own — are held up for admiration and insights into how best to let those strengths assist him in areas where he is weaker. I leave each session dizzy with knowledge and questions and hope and sadness — eager to do whatever I can to ultimately help my son feel successful and confident and happy with who he is. But it is a long and painful process and not one I can approach like one of my strategic decks, laying out the objective, the strategies and the tactics that will ultimately get us there. It is a murkier area without a clear timeline; it involves waiting for audiologists, psychologists and occupational therapists to get faxed orders, find dates in 2009 when they can fit you in and negotiations with insurance companies in the hopes of keeping your house while you try to help your child learn to say, with bold confidence, "That is the letter M, and it's red."

In the meantime we play I Spy to work on our colors, bake cookies to help with motor skills, and spend at least a few minutes everyday cuddled up and talking about the time I had three cats in a row named Claude, rode my bike to MacDonald's while my mom secretly tailed me, or when I was spy at the tender age of eight and fell through Mrs. Wolfe's patio cover while watching her in the bath. And, of course, loving all the parts of him that are normal, different or exceptional. Because all in all, they add up to the boy I love most in this world...my perfect son.