I have been completing the paperwork to take Ainsley to a Developmental Pediatrician for a second opinion. The process started about 3 months ago. Fortunately, the forms are available online, and, when printed, make a stack of paper about one quarter of an inch thick.
That little pile of trees is intimidating as hell. I completed the same forms four years ago when I took Ian to the same place. Somehow, back then, the questions seemed easier to answer. It could be that I am duller than I was a few years ago. Every time I sit down with pen in hand, it is so difficult to get through more than three questions. By the time I read the fourth question, a raging headache is pounding on one side of my head causing one eye to close partially and blurring my vision.
My reaction would be completely understandable if this were a calculus test, or if one of the questions was "Can you solve the equation E = MC squared in your lifetime?" But it isn't. These are questions about my daughter. I should know the answers. Other than a few hours a week, she and I have been together for almost 5 years, non-stop. So why is this so damn hard?
This one gave me fits: "Describe your child as a young child." Assuming this is ages one to three, it is difficult for me to remember that far back. You'd think they were asking for a description of something I saw forty years ago. I just can't do it. I know I was paying attention because I was extremely worried she was going to have Asperger's too. I think I spent so much time watching for symptoms, that maybe I forgot to see the whole child. My own child.
So, I asked Steve to answer the question. He said, "She was happy." That's when I realized, Steve wasn't around much back then. He was traveling and working long hours. Ainsley seemed happy to him because every time he saw her was a reunion. He missed about six straight months of her changes. Six months of speech therapy and learning to talk. Six months of frustrations while we prepared to move. He never saw the struggles. In a way, he is fortunate that he didn't have to wonder if his little girl would ever say "da-da". To Steve it happened overnight - but it was really about 8 months.
I guess I'm on my own with these forms, and I've barely made a dent.
Now it's Thursday. The pile of papers is still sitting next to me, untouched since Tuesday night. This is crazy! Most of what remains is checking boxes labeled "yes", "no", or "sometimes". I know why I am putting this off. It's so obvious.
When I completed the same packet for Ian, I cried for 2 days after mailing it in to the Center. It was heartbreaking to openly admit to someone just how difficult things were and how little we knew about how to help him. I don't want to feel that way again.
It shouldn't be that bad this time. Ainsley's symptoms are a little milder than Ian's, and we DO know what to do this time. Still, I know how dreadful it is to be honest with myself about these multi-faceted autistic gems. There are many angles to each one, many complications, sharp edges that cut holes in my heart and remove reason from my brain.
It takes moments of truth to make me see that this is not an end, it is a beginning.
One of those moments of truth happened to me this morning. Ian, through his tortoise-like morning rituals, gave me the opportunity to see that my eight year-old is capable of doing more for himself than I thought was possible. He does not need me to do things for him. Guidance and confirmation are often all the help he needs. Words. Not deeds.
We stood at the end of the driveway this morning, waiting for the carpool. Resting my hand on his shoulder that is now up to my waist, I whispered, "This is my big kid." I gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and dropped my hand to my side, giving him some grown-up space from a mom who sometimes hovers a little too much.
With a hand gloved in knitted Spider Man (NOT Thomas the Tank Engine OR Star Wars!), Ian reached for my cold fingers and gave them a gentle squeeze back. "And you're my Mom," he whispered with great pride. Then he did something really amazing. He put his hands on my cheeks, looked me straight in the eyes, and kissed me on the lips, just like I do to him when I want him to know how important he is to me.
He understands. He gets it! He has already moved from "my little guy" to "my big kid" right before my eyes. And it seemed to take right around 49 minutes.
It's time to finish Ainsley's paperwork. It will be done today. I promise.
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