It should have been more momentous.
Sitting there, in a classroom last week, listening to my autistic son’s teacher tell me that he was doing well in all his subjects was the stuff of my dreams a few years ago. A reality I couldn’t imagine, but one I hoped to attain in the far away world called Someday. A scenario I’d all but dashed after his preschool speech therapist told me my son would “never be normal” and would “never catch up” after I’d seen their IQ testing. He’d tested a 70, just a cut above mentally retarded.
But somehow, this is now my reality. My son is in fourth grade, and after years of struggling to help him assimilate into the main stream, he is there. I sat across from his teacher this year only to hear glowing after glowing report. My son wasn’t just doing well “under the circumstances” as is usually the case. He was simply, “doing well.” He is on grade level in all of his subjects. He has friends and in fact shows concern for others who are not doing well socially or academically. He is funny and well liked.
It took a long time for us to adjust our expectations for our youngest son. To put ourselves in the mindset of not just being parents, but being “special needs parents”, a small but mighty breed of fighters whose sole focus is advocating for and pushing their child as far as they can reasonably be expected to progress. To accept that he might not ever live an independent life, or go to college, or hold a job, or even drive a car. But we did it. We were there. It was our reality.
It isn’t anymore.
It almost feels too soon, too scary to think about readjusting our expectations and goals again. To dare to dream that someday our son might just live, but thrive. That we could experience days of pride and joy for him as we have with our oldest child.
For now, I will be happy with where we are. It’s going to be a while, I think, before I know that this is new reality is going to stick.